ii::::::.'::ir!;;::;:i::ii:r,::;-,:..:;i:!  .:. 

;aB  i!   1  liil!  ijlBlliy  i 


:.mmimm. 


BERTRAND  SMITHS 
ACRES  Of-  BOOK-S 
140  FACIFIC  AVENUE 
LONG   BEACH    CALIF. 


'MANDERS    BEGAN    SINGING"         (See  page 


Special  3Limii£tJ 


of 


BY 

ELWYN   BARRON 

JKEitfj  JFnmtttptecr 

BY 
T.  SPICER   SIMSON 


NEW  YORK 

INTERNATIONAL  BOOK  AND  PUBLISHING  CO. 
1900 


Copyright,  fSyy 
BY  L.  C.  PAGE  AND  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 
All  rights  reserved 


CONTENTS 

Ma 

CHAPTER  I  •           «..«•          1 

CHAPTER  II  ......        19 

CHAPTEB  HI  .          .          .          .          .          ,35 

CHAPTER  IV  67 

CHAPTEB  V  •          .           •          .          .70 

CHAPTER  VI  •           .           .           •           .86 

CHAPTER  VII  ......      101 

CHAPTER  VIH  ......      108 

CHAPTER  IX 119 

CHAPTER  X  132 

CHAPTER  XI  .           .           .           .           .           .141 

CHAPTER  XII  .           .           .           .           .           .164 

CHAPTER  XIII    ......      168 

CHAPTER  XIV .188 


2061769 


CONTENTS 

FAQ* 

CHAPTER  XV 199 

CHAPTER  XVI    ......  908 

CHAPTER  XVII  ......  224 

CHAPTER  XVIH            .....  237 

CHAPTER  XIX 247 

CHAPTER  XX 262 

CHAPTER  XXI 275 

CHAPTER  XXII 295 

CHAPTER  XXHI            .....  313 

CHAPTER  XXIV             .           .           .  823 


MANDERS 


CHAPTER  I 

WHEN  Handera  began  life  he  was  eight  years  old. 
This  statement  does  not  warrant  the  inference  that 
he  had  put  off  being  born  until  he  was  ready  for 
string-top  and  jack-knife.  Mandera  conformed  to 
the  conventionalities  at  birth,  and  devoted  the  usual 
time  to  clamorous  and  practical  opposition  to  those 
demands  of  life  and  infantage  which  seem  to  strike 
incipient  men  and  women  as  so  many  absurd  devices 
for  their  discomfort  and  annoyance. 

Doubtless,  were  it  left  to  the  choice  of  the  average 
boy,  there  would  be  a  prompt  reformation  of  natal 
conditions,  and  man  would  be  born  of  woman  as 
Minerva  sprang  from  Jove,  fully  equipped  for  the 
moral  and  physical  arena,  where  his  energies  are  to 
be  tried  and  defied.  The  human  economy,  indeed, 
already  demands  of  science  some  such  improvement 
upon  the  principal  methods  of  the  race  in  the  matter 
of  its  self-multiplication.  Some  savants  hold  the 
opinion  that  the  full  fruits  of  civilisation  are  not 

A 


MANDERS 

likely  to  be  gathered  into  the  store-house  of  per- 
fection until  it  has  been  uniformly  and  successively 
demonstrated  that  full  growth  and  mental  com- 
pleteness at  birth  are  really  the  natural  ordering. 
In  support  of  this  intelligent  theory  they  have  the 
most  incontestable  authority,  the  Scriptural  exposi- 
tion of  Man's  origin  and  establishment  on  the  earth. 
Adam  began  the  active  work  of  husbandman  within 
twelve  hours  after  he  had  become  a  sentient  being. 
His  botanical,  zoological  and  other  information  was 
plenary  from  the  beginning.  He  was  able  at  once 
to  separate,  classify  and  specifically  name  the  animal, 
vegetable  and  mineral  life  with  which  his  extensive 
estates  were  abundantly  stocked  and  enriched. 

Were  it  not  that  the  confusion  of  biographies  is 
something  to  be  avoided,  some  confirmatory  facts  from 
modern  experimentation  might  be  offered  here.  There 
are  the  well-known  but  generally  disregarded  con- 
ditions of  Standish  Woolverton's  attested  birth  and 
career.  These  circumstances  afford  the  most  conclu- 
sive proof  that  our  ancient  belief,  that  infancy  and 
youth  must  precede  manhood  and  maturity,  is  as 
much  the  outcome  of  ignorance  and  superstition  as 
the  one-time  faith  in  centaurs  and  griffins,  or  the 
modern  notions  of  heredity.  Dr  Spenlow's  trust- 
worthy history  of  "Physical  Abnormities"  includes 
all  that  is  of  physiological  or  psychological  value  in 
this  peculiar  case.  Dr  Spenlow,  who  was  himself  the 
attending  physician,  says  Woolverton  was  five  feet 
tall,  and  had  a  full  beard  thirty  minutes  after  his 

a 


MANDERS 

birth.  In  the  morning  of  the  next  day  he  rode  to 
hounds  at  the  invitation  of  Lord  Pondlewaite- 
Etherton.  It  was  only  two  years  later  that  he  wrote 
the  famous  brochure  on  "Protoplasmic  Detritus," 
which  Professor  Huxley  confessed  nullified  all  his 
own  laboriously  elaborated  theories  of  life  and  nature. 
We  all  know  how  Woolverton  fell  a  victim  in  1873 
to  the  demonstration  of  his  theory  that  a  raindrop 
falling  through  a  vacuum  of  a  thousand  feet  would 
acquire  the  fatal  force  of  a  bullet  discharged  from  a 
gun.  He  was  eight  years  old  at  the  time — just  the 
age  at  which  Manders  began  life,  but  in  that  coin- 
cidence lies  all  the  resemblance  between  the  two 
histories. 

Manders,  I  repeat,  was  born  in  the  old,  illogical, 
ridiculous  and  infantile  way;  so  the  declaration 
relative  to  the  age  at  which  he  began  life  must  be 
understood  to  mean  the  time  when  he  found  himself 
dependent  upon  his  own  unaided  exertions  as  a  bread- 
winner. Manders  had  had  some  parents  of  a  careless, 
irresponsible  pattern,  and  such  ideas  as  they  had 
inculcated  in  his  prattlehood  would  hardly  serve  any 
but  the  most  energetic  of  resolute  minds  as  baits 
to  a  success  of  any  appreciable  kind. 

The  paternal  Manders  had  gone  through  with 
a  gentlemanly  fortune  in  an  ungentlemanlike  way, 
the  final  sovereigns  of  it  having  disappeared  before 
the  real  Manders,  my  Manders,  was  well  rid  of  his 
swaddling  bands.  Having  nothing  more  to  spend, 
and  wanting  the  aptitude  to  acquire  the  means  of 

3 


MANDERS 

continuing  an  easy  existence,  Manders  pdre,  thoroughly 
emmied  of  an  empty  life,  one  star-blazed  evening 
in  the  waning  of  summer,  wrote  a  letter  or  two, 
strolled  down  to  the  Quai  de  Malaquais,  threw  the 
butt  of  his  cigarette  into  the  river  and  dived  after  it. 
When  Madame  Manders  heard  of  this  exceptional 
exercise  of  determination  on  her  husband's  part,  her 
pretty  face  lost  its  colour,  she  wept  in  an  irresolute, 
repining  sort  of  way,  and,  not  quite  certain  of  her- 
self, gathered  Manders  into  her  lap  and  kissed  him. 

"  Tu  n'as  pas'  un  fader-r,  mon  pauvre ;  mon  petit 
poor  Edouard ! " 

She  said  this  a  great  many  times,  sitting  there 
swaying  back  and  forth,  as  unresourceful  as  her 
child.  There  were  about  her  the  faded  and  worn 
remainders  of  a  once  artistic  room — for  Manders  pere 
had  had  taste  of  a  kind,  although  he  did  scandalise 
and  estrange  his  English  family  by  really  marrying 
a  Quartier  Latin  grisette,  suspected  of  posing  for 
artists  who  were  unable  to  paint  draperies  and 
despised  landscapes.  There  are  no  tyrants  like 
our  artificial  sensibilities. 

Madame  Manders  never  saw  the  something  that 
had  been  her  husband,  which  they  got  back  from 
the  care  -  soothing,  shame  -  quenching,  emotionless 
friend  of  humanity,  the  serpentine  river,  murmurous 
as  the  cooing  of  doves,  as  it  rolls  down  to  the  sea. 

"  I  cannot  look  upon  him  that  way,"  she  whimpered, 
dropping  tears  upon  the  cheek  of  the  wonder-stricken 
Manders.  "  He  would  come  that  way  into  iny  dreams, 

4 


MANDERS 

They  say  dead  people  stare  at  you  so.  I  should  die 
of  terror."  She  shivered,  and  the  child  patted  her 
throat,  which  was  smooth  and  round  and  ivory  tinted. 
It  was  a  caress  she  liked.  She  always  kissed  him  for 
it.  She  did  now,  and  just  the  herald  of  a  smile 
touched  her  tear-wet  lips. 

"Don't  cry,"  said  Manders ;  "if  my  papa  is  dead, 
we  are  going  to  have  a  ride  in  a  carriage." 

Two  men  came  over  from  London  in  personal 
response  to  one  of  the  letters  written  by  Manders 
pere.  They  took  the  long  box  back  with  them. 
Madame  Manders  went  down  to  the  Gare  St  Lazare. 
She  had  an  instinctive  clinging  to  the  something  in 
the  long  box.  She  would  rather  it  were  not  taken 
away  into  that  gloomy  England.  But,  then,  she  did 
not  know.  The  men  were  his  brothers,  they  told 
her.  Perhaps  they  had  the  better  right  to  him ;  only 
it  seemed  to  her  that  the  box  had  in  it  the  best  days 
and  nights  of  her  girlhood;  some  memories,  some 
hopes,  some  loves  that  belonged  only  to  her.  As 
she  stood  there  in  an  absent  way  fingering  one  of  the 
wreaths  of  flowers,  a  thought  of  some  vague  talk 
she  had  had  with  Manders  pere  about  the  future  of 
their  child  came  into  her  uncertain  mind.  For  the 
moment  maternity  spoke  within  her.  Not  very 
distinctly,  not  with  any  authority,  but  like  the  echo 
of  a  once  dear  voice,  imperfectly  recalled  with  still 
a  note  of  sweetness  in  it  She  pushed  the  child 
hesitatingly  forward  a  step  or  two.  There  was  the 
faint  shadow  of  an  anxious  hope  in  her  face — the 

5 


MANDERS 

hope  that  is  already  a  disappointment.  She  spoke 
in  English.  It  seemed  more  respectful  to  the  still 
friend  there  in  the  long  box,  that  friend  whose 
French  always  made  her  laugh — except,  except  when 
it  made  her  sigh.  The  smooth-faced,  but  older 
brother  was  nearer  to  her — the  one  with  something 
so  stern,  so  forbidding  in  his  eyes. 

"  Monsieur,  this  is  his  boy !  His  name  is  Edward, 
too!" 

The  brother  looked  coldly  at  her,  without  so 
much  as  glancing  at  the  child. 

"  It  is  your  child,  madame." 

"And  his,"  pointing  a  trembling  finger  toward  the 
box. 

"  We  do  not  know  that,  madame." 

She  shrank  away.  She  was  not  hurt.  Her  heart 
felt  no  resentment.  She  only  understood  that  she 
and  her  boy  had  nothing  in  common  with  these  grim 
men.  She  had  never  dreamed  of  money  for  herself ; 
besides,  she  had  known  well  enough  that  the  Edward 
she  had  loved  in  an  undeveloped  way  was  the  heir 
to  nothing — lord  of  not  a  sou  more  than  the  money 
he  had  squandered  in  his  idle  fashion  as  they  drifted 
from  city  to  city  until,  in  the  year  the  Republic 
triumphed,  the  birth  of  the  little  one  arrested  them 
in  Paris.  But  she  had  some  dim,  half -fearful,  half- 
alluring  notion  of  an  English  adoption  for  him,  of 
an  English  education  at  the  hands  of  those  formid- 
able rich  relatives  of  whom  Manders  p&re  had 
babbled  over  his  boy's  cradle  in  those  hours  of 


MANDERS 

half  repentance,  when  he  caught  serious  glimpses 
of  his  disordered  life.  She  would  like  to  have  had 
her  boy  a  gentleman ;  but,  as  it  was  not  to  be— eh 
bien ;  so  much  the  better,  perhaps. 

The  train  began  crawling  out  of  the  station. 
Madame  Manders  looked  after  it  with  a  dumb  long- 
ing that  was  succeeded  by  a  dull  sense  of  desolation 
as  the  last  carriage  quite  disappeared  from  her  view. 
She  stood  in  the  same  attitude  some  moments,  her 
eyes,  not  even  misty  now,  staring  ahead  as  if  she 
still  saw  something  that  was  strangely  beyond  her 
comprehension,  and  which  held  her  gaze  without 
occupying  her  thought.  The  child  pulled  at  her 
gown. 

"Mamma!" 

"  Oui,  mon  petit,"  she  answered  unconsciously,  her 
eyes  still  on  that  distant,  baffling  vision. 

"  Aliens,  chez  papa,"  said  the  child  insistently. 

"  Oui,  allons  done,  mon  pauvre."  She  turned  un- 
emotionally as  he  tugged  at  her  hand,  and  they  went 
out  of  the  station,  she  walking  through  a  dream. 

Paris  is  a  forgetful  city.  It  knows  only  the 
present  hour,  and  the  passing  event.  It  laughs  or 
sobs,  or  shrieks,  or  roars  in  turn,  under  the  breath  of 
the  moment,  indifferent  utterly  to  the  thing  it  was 
doing  the  moment  before.  That  is  why  everything 
is  improbable,  and  nothing  impossible  in  the  future 
of  France.  Madame  Manders,  walking  with  her 
fatherless  boy  towards  the  'bus  stand,  was  partly 
aware  of  this  unmindfulness.  An  hour  before,  when 

7 


MANDERS 

the  hearse,  and  the  two  mourning  carriages  passed 
along  the  streets,  all  eyes  were  turned  upon  it. 
Madame  Manders  had  felt  a  sort  of  personal  pride 
in  her  grief,  as  she  saw  hats  lifted  reverently  while 
that  velvet-covered,  flower-decked  long  box,  with  its 
careless  sleeper,  went  past  She  had  noted  gratefully 
the  thousand  pitying  looks  directed  towards  her  and 
the  child  by  her  side.  Her  bereavement  was  not 
without  its  distinction.  Now  no  one  heeded  her, 
unless  it  was  to  peer  into  her  face  with  that  curious 
scrutiny  which  betrays  an  insolent  admiration.  This 
indifference  to  her  affliction,  this  calm  reduction  of 
widowhood  and  orphanage  to  the  commonplace, 
making  them  mere  threads  in  the  warp  and  woof 
of  experience,  grievously  affected  Madame  Manders. 
All  sympathy  seemed  suddenly  withdrawn  from  her 
She  felt  alone,  abandoned.  As  she  took  her  place  in 
the  'bus  she  had  a  sense  of  fearing  people  which  hei 
common  sense  chided  ;  but  she  sank  into  a  corner  and 
lifted  her  boy  on  to  her  lap,  as  if  he  should  serve  her 
as  <*  shield.  Then  she  felt  an  inclination  to  laugh, 
and  drew  the  unbecoming  black  veil  more  closely 
about  her  face.  But  tears  came  instead  of  the  laugh, 
so  versatile  is  the  human  heart. 

Manders  was  unconcerned.  Nearly  six  years  of 
age  was  Manders  now,  but  he  still  knew  very  well 
the  gross  folly  of  being  much  disturbed  by  such  irra- 
tional things  as  death  and  the  hodge-podge  of  mortal 
uneducation.  The  pity  of  it  is  that  children,  in  spite 
of  their  instinctive  rebellion,  come  in  their  turn, 

ft 


MANDERS 

through  enforced  imitation  and  study  of  their  elders, 
to  be  uneducated,  too,  exchanging  the  wisdom  of  the 
eternities  for  the  fantastic  knowledge  of  a  ludicrous 
ephemeral  existence.  Perhaps,  if  we  were  not  at 
such  pains  to  uneducate  our  children,  cramming  them 
into  uniform  mind  factories,  and  applauding  their 
progress  in  the  obliteration  of  individualism,  we 
might  come,  in  time,  to  know  a  little  of  God's  pur- 
pose in  creating  the  world  in  which  wo  antic.  We 
never  stop  to  consider  how  wonderful  is  the  wisdom 
of  a  new-born  babe  uttering  a  vigorous  protest 
against  the  cheat  of  mortality. 

Manders,  cuddled  on  his  mother's  lap,  cast  a  look 
around,  saw  that,  with  the  exception  of  himself,  the 
'bus  was  filled  with  self -created,  self -deluded  im- 
beciles, and  so  tucked  his  head  down  comfortably 
under  the  maternal  arm  and  went  to  sleep.  The 
rattle  and  roar  of  the  heavy  wheels  grinding  over 
the  granite  pavements  could  not  reach  into  the 
region  where  his  soul  refreshed  itself. 

Once  again,  that  evening,  as  he  had  on  the  four 
preceding  evenings,  Manders  asked. 

"  Where  is  my  papa  ?  " 

And  Madame  Manders  answered  as  she  had  before 
answered,  only  this  time  without  tears. 

"He  has  gone  for  a  long  visit,  my  little  one. 
Sometime  we  shall  go  to  him.  He  will  never  come 
back  to  us." 

Manders  never  asked  the  question  again.  Philo- 
sophy restrained  him,  no  doubt ;  possibly  it  was  only 

9 


MANDERS 

the  force  of  circumstances ;  for  Madame  Manders  had 
the  chance  to  sublet  her  roomy  apartment  in  the  Rue 
d'Assas,  and  straightway  took  a  snug  little  triolet  of 
rooms  five  dingy  flights  up  in  the  dirty  and  crooked, 
if  picturesque,  Rue  St  Jacques,  the  oldest  street  in 
Paris,  and  comfortless,  but  adapted  to  the  practice 
of  economy.  New  associations  begetting  new  ideas, 
Manders  seemed  to  forget  that  he  had  ever  had 
the  responsibility  of  a  father. 

The  English  brothers  had  given  Madame  Manders 
a  purse  on  the  day  of  the  going  away,  after  she  had 
signed  some  little  paper  the  exact  purport  of  which 
she  did  not  attempt  to  grasp.  The  purse  contained 
one  thousand  francs,  and  that  sum  made  her 
tranquilly  indifferent  to  the  contents  of  the  paper; 
but,  had  he  been  carefully  consulted,  Manders  might 
reasonably  have  interposed  an  objection  to  so  cheap 
a  relinquishment  of  what  really  constituted  his  title 
of  gentility,  a  claim  on  the  Manders'  family.  At  the 
same  time  one  thousand  francs  immediately  in  hand 
are  rather  to  be  thought  of  than  things  remote 
and  hardly  contingent.  With  this  money  Madame 
Manders  felt  secure  to  indulge  the  mournful  sweets 
of  new  widowhood  without  troubling  her  pretty 
little  head  with  the  problems  of  destiny  indefinitely 
put  off  The  day  after  the  funeral  one  of  these 
problems  offered  to  obtrude  itself. 

"Will  you  go  back  to  posing?"  garrulous  old 
Mere  Pugens  had  asked  her.  Mother  Pugens  had 
a  little  "  tabac  "  and  paper  shop,  and  was  sage-femme 


MANDERS 

as  well.     It  was  she  who  had  ushered  Manders  into 
the  world. 

"  How  should  one  know  what  one  is  to  do  ? "  she 
answered,  adding  somewhat  irrelevantly,  maybe,  "I 
hadn't  had  a  baby  then." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Mere  Pugens,  glancing  about  the  room 
indifferently.  "  Ah !  my  dear,  once  a  model  always 
a  model — or  worse,  is  what  they  say.  You  are 
young  and  pretty — you  have  to  do  something,  I 
suppose.  Well,  there  are  only  three  things  for  one 
like  you  who  can't  so  much  as  make  a  chemise; 
posing,  re-marriage,  or — well,  you  know  what  my 
girl  Lisette  has  done  for  herself.  But  then  Lisette 
was  clever.  Lord!  lord!  Lisette  saw  where  the 
future  hid  its  berries  before  she  had  quit  wearing 
short  stockings.  She  used  to  say,  with  a  toss  of  her 
head  in  contempt  of  the  shop,  '  I'll  be  a  marquise  one 
day ! '  Eh  bien !  It  is  amusing.  He  isn't  a 
marquis — no;  but  she  rides  in  her  carriage  just 
the  same.  I  saw  her  in  the  Bois  last  Sunday.  She 
threw  me  a  kiss,  my  dear.  A  good  girl  is  Lisette, 
but  no  longer  a  child.  She's  forty,  my  dear — but 
she  has  had  twenty  years  of  it,  and  without  having 
gone  begging  twice  in  the  time.  An  estimable 
record,  eb  ?  And  never  ashamed  of  her  old  mother. 
That  is  the  best  of  it.  Now  if  you  have  a  mind  to 
consult  Lisette — " 

"Not  at  all,  Mere  Pugens,"  Madame  Manders 
hastened  to  interrupt. 

"  As  for  that  matter,"  said  the  old  woman  with  a 


MANDERS 

curious  smile  that  pursed  her  hairy  lips,  "I  don't 
know  that  you  need  look  as  if  I  had  spat  in  the 
holy  water.  Is  it  any  worse  than  being  a 
model?  Lisette  was  a  model  for  a  while;  she  says 
it's  a  dog's  life — the  hardest  work  there  is,  and  far 
from  respectable.  It  is  better  to  be  a  lady,  my  dear. 
And  think  what  you  could  do  for  the  boy.  You 
can't  do  much  for  him  now,  I  think;  and  as  for 
the  pay  a  model  gets — bah!  You'd  much  better 
roast  chestnuts." 

But  one  evening,  three  months  after  Manders  had 
ceased  to  ask  for  his  papa,  Madame  Manders  was 
accosted  by  an  old  artist  just  as  she  turned  into  the 
Rue  Sufflot  on  her  way  home. 

"  Is  it  you,  Marie  ? " 

"  Yes,  M.  Monier,  it  is  I." 

Both  were  well  pleased  with  the  meeting,  and 
they  shook  hands  like  old  comrades,  smiling  frankly. 

They  could  afford  to  be  frank.  When  a  woman 
is  less  than  twenty-five  and  »  man  is  more  than 
sixty  such  a  thing  as  candid  friendship  is  possible 
between  them. 

M.  Monier  fondled  the  hand  he  held  in  both  his 
own  in  an  affectionately  paternal  way.  "It  has 
been  so  long  since  I  saw  you  last  I  was  not  quite 
sure.  You  have  changed — but  not  much.  A  little 
rounder  than  you  were,  Marie.  Just  a  suspicion. 
Possibly  an  improvement,  eh*  But  you  are  in 
mourning ! " 

"My  husband,  monsieur." 


MANDERS 

"Oh,  yes;  i  remember.  You  left  us  to  get 
married.  So  it  is  over  V  Humph !  Are  you  sorry  ? " 

"  Oil,  yes,  M.  Monier.  He  was  good  to  me — nearly 
always.  Sometimes  we  saw  things  in  two  ways; 
but  he  used  to  kiss  me  afterwards."  It  was  as  if 
she  were  addressing  her  father,  attempting  to  clear 
his  vision  of  a  prejudicial  mist.  M.  Monier  quite 
understood.  He  gave  her  hand  a  final  stroke  ae  he 
let  it  slip  from  his  clasp. 

"  And  when  did  he  die  ? " 

"Three  months  ago.  You  know  they  found  him 
in  the  river." 

He  knew  nothing  whatever  of  this.  He  looked 
into  her  eyes.  He  had  forgotten  that  they  were 
blue,  that  delicate  blue  which  is  perplexingly  akin 
to  grey,  but  he  remembered  them  honest  and  child- 
like. He  saw  that  same  direct  simplicity  in  them 
now,  and  he  pulled  at  the  grizzled  tufts  of  his  beard 
to  hide  a  smile.  He  was  amused  by  her  unmind- 
fulness  that  "  found  in  the  river "  is  not  descriptive 
of  an  orthodox  solution  of  the  large  problem. 

"  Then  you  are  alone  ? " 

"Oh,  no,  monsieur,  I  have  my  little  one."  There 
was  no  mistaking  that  sudden  lighting  up  of  her 
face,  and  he  was  touched  by  it 

"And  you  live?" 

"  For  the  present,  monsieur." 

"  And  after  a  while  ? " 

"I  don't  know,  monsieur.  Something  will  come. 
I  do  not  trouble  myself."  Madame  Maudera  had  a 

n 


MANDERS 

dimple  in  her  chin  and  a  mouth  like  a  Cupid's  bow. 
What  have  these  things  to  do  with  troubling  or 
being  troubled? 

M.  Monier  shook  his  head. 

"  Then  you  don't  care  to  come  back  to  me  now  ?  *' 

"  I  don't  know,  monsieur.     Why  not  ?  " 

"  There  are  not  many  models  like  you,  Marie.  My 
school  needs  you.  Come,  let  us  make  a  bargain." 

"  As  you  please,  monsieur." 

"  Good.     When  can  you  come  ?  * 

"To-morrow?" 

"Why  not  to-night?  I  have  an  evening  class — 
charcoal  idiots  who  can't  draw  with  a  brush."  He 
flourished  his  hand  eloquently. 

"  You  are  so  droll,  M.  Monien  But  I  cannot  leave 
my  little  one  at  night.  He  can  be  with  a  neighbour 
part  of  the  day — I  pay  her  ten  sous — but  she  wouldn't 
keep  him  at  night.  Besides,  I  like  to  have  him  then 
myself.  He  is  pretty,  monsieur." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  I  see  where  he  gets  it." 
He  chucked  the  dimpled  chin,  and  the  eyes  above  it 
laughed.  "  To-morrow,  then  ? " 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"At  nine?" 

*  At  nine,  monsieur." 

There  was  much  that  was  agreeable  to  Madame 
Manders  in  the  idea  of  reviving  a  professional  rela- 
tionship in  which  she  formerly  prided  herself.  She 
had  heard  it  said  that  hers  was  the  best  figure  in  the 
Latin  Quarter,  and  she  had  never  thought  herself 

»4 


MANDERS 

called  upon  to  disclaim  the  fact.  It  did  not  disturb 
her  a  great  deal  that  some  of  the  more  exacting 
students  had  declared  her  head  and  body  to  be  of 
no  kinship,  the  one  having  been  designed  for  a  doll 
at  the  Bon  Marche,  the  other  having  been  fashioned 
after  the  Eurydice  of  Nanteuil.  She  had  taken  it 
upon  herself  to  examine  this  admirable  treasure  of 
the  Luxembourg,  a  figure  in  which  the  roundness 
of  maturity  and  the  seductive  charm  of  youth  were 
wonderfully  balanced.  Therefore  the  criticism  con- 
veyed only  a  compliment  to  her  by  no  means  logical 
little  mind,  for  she  knew  very  well  the  advantage  of 
being  a  young  Venus  in  an  art  quarter  where  good 
heads  are  in  a  great  majority  over  shapely  bodies. 
This  reflection  made  it  possible  for  her  to  reply  to 
her  critics  with  amiability,  "  If  my  head  offends  you, 
you  should  never  look  above  my  bust." 

But  quite  as  persuasive  as  the  whisperings  of  a 
gentle  vanity  was  an  inexplicable  yearning  to  escape 
the  portentous  dignity  of  her  r6le  as  Madame  Manders. 
Her  husband  had  been  precise  and  formal  in  this 
particular.  In  the  presence  of  others  he  always 
addressed  her,  referred  to  her,  as  Madame  Manders, 
and  the  indulgent  world  took  up  the  cue,  so  that 
every  fibre  of  the  poor  creature's  body  stiffened  into 
a  responsive  dignity  that  kept  her  on  the  rack.  It 
never  occurred  to  her  to  interpose  an  objection,  but 
she  so  hungered  for  the  old  familiar  name  and  the 
frank,  Bohemian  life  under  the  reign  of  the  ateliers 
that  it  is  probable  the  prospect  of  being  called  Marie 

'5 


MANDERS 

by  the  students  had  as  much  to  do  with  her  ready 
agreement  with  M.  Monier  as  the  desire  to  hear 
praises  of  her  charms.  This  na'ive  trait  of  a  simple 
temperament  may  be  accounted  for  in  the  fact  that 
Madame  Manders  was,  notwithstanding  the  opinion 
of  the  insular  family  Manders,  a  woman  of  so  genuine 
a  virtue  that  marriage  and  maternity  had  not  pro- 
faned the  maidenliness  of  her  character.  The  idea 
here  so  imperfectly  defined  was  comprehensively  ex- 
pressed by  Pointin  the  first  time  he  saw  her  posed 
for  Roder's  Eve.  After  eyeing  her  in  pleasurable 
silence  for  some  moments,  he  said,  in  a  half  serious 
way,  "  You  should  make  a  faithful  likeness  and  call 
it  'Aphrodite  Exempt  de  Pe'ehe''!"  A  very  charm- 
ing compliment  if  you  will  analyse  it ;  certainly  an 
extraordinary  tribute  to  a  professional  model  for  the 
nude — in  the  Quartier  Latin. 

When  she  stepped  out  of  her  apartment  to  go  to 
the  studio  on  the  morning  after  her  agreement  with 
M.  Monier,  Marie  left  Madame  Manders  behind,  and 
tripped  into  the  street  as  coquettish  a  model  as  any 
that  ever  danced  her  heart  and  reputation  away  at 
a  Bullier  ball.  She  felt  deliciously  animating  thrills 
in  the  thought  of  her  return  to  a  productive  inde- 
pendence. She  was  pleased  with  the  expectation 
of  her  welome  at  the  school,  an  expectation  more 
than  realised,  for  everybody  was  enthusiastic.  It  was 
a  day  of  agreeable  sensations,  and  the  evening  retro- 
spect was  a  triumphant  renewal  of  the  day's  experi- 
ances.  She  had  lifted  Manders  to  her  shoulders  aud 

16 


MANDERS 

mounted  the  stairs  with  him  in  a  gale  of  merriment, 
on  her  return  from  the  studio. 

"  Houp-la ! " 

Manders  was  very  well  content.  Marie  had 
revived.  She  had  put  off  her  mourning  garments 
in  obedience  to  professional  demands,  and  in  some 
indefinable  way  the  mourning  had  gone  out  of  her 
heart  at  the  same  time.  It  must  not  be  supposed 
that  Marie  had  not  loved  her  husband.  She  loved 
him  very  much  in  her  way,  and  as  long  as  his  fine 
person  and  indolent  affection  had  their  direct  influence 
upon  her.  But  Marie  had  never  been  fully  awakened, 
and  she  was  as  incapable  of  a  self -sustained  emotion 
as  little  Manders  himself,  and  the  dead  Edward  was 
as  far  away  from  her  as  from  the  child,  and  for 
precisely  the  same  reason.  After  all,  we  too  often 
mistake  a  constitutional  dolorousness  for  elegiac 
fidelity,  and  confound  with  levity  and  insincerity  the 
amiability  and  graciousness  which  attest  a  good  heart 
and  a  generous  soul.  Prolonged  grief  argues  a  dis- 
turbed conscience.  Marie's  conscience  was  as  clear 
and  untroubled  as  the  water  in  the  great  basin  of  the 
Luxembourg  gardens  under  the  blue  of  a  still  June 
morning  before  the  children  have  come  down  with 
their  boats.  Being  thus  tranquil  of  soul,  she  could 
be  no  other  than  light  of  heart.  She  was  soon  done 
with  weeping ;  "  the  maman  who  smiles,"  as  Manders 
named  her,  came  again,  and  she  and  her  boy  were 
children  together,  the  toys  of  the  one  being  the 

amusement  of  the  other.     One  looking  in  upon  the 

B 


MANDERS 

cosy,  well-ordered,  really  pretty  little  room  which 
Marie  called  salon,  and  seeing  the  two  innocents  at 
play  upon  the  floor  in  the  candle-light,  might  have 
been  tempted  to  think  that  Manders  pere  did  rather 
a  good  thing  when  he  threw  that  cigarette  butt  into 
the  Seine. 

Of  course,  Marie  had  liked  the  champagne  suppers 
and  the  curious  assemblies  in  which  strangely  assorted 
reputations,  male  and  female,  showed  their  native 
hues  through  the  tobacco  smoke,  and  where  jests 
were  laughed  at  less  for  their  wit  than  for  another 
sort  of  pointedness.  But  then,  too,  she  had  liked 
before  that  the  beer  which  sans  gene  students  had 
paid  for  in  the  dim  cafe's;  she  smoked  their  bad 
cigarettes  with  a  sense  of  exquisite  indulgence,  and 
she  listened  to  their  droll  stories  in  an  abandonment 
of  easy  mirth.  The  fact  is,  Marie  was  one  of  those 
truants  from  Arcadia  who  live  in  the  passing  hour, 
and  who  have  little  to  do  with  hopes,  and  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  repinings.  Child  of  the  moment, 
she  honoured  her  paternity.  Earth  makes  flowers — 
roses  and  lilies,  violets  and  daisies,  all  the  fragrant 
and  delicate  blossoms  and  blooms  that  rejoice  the 
desolate  world — out  of  the  smiling  women  who  fall 
asleep  in  her  arms.  I  wonder  what  Marie  will  be  ? 
Some  gossamer-petalled  orchid,  no  doubt,  whose 
very  spots  shall  perfect  its  scheme  of  beauty  and 
refine  its  purity. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  M.  Monier's  day  class,  for  which  Marie  posed,  was 
a  young  Virginian  whose  success  in  figure  drawing 
was  in  inverse  ratio  to  the  intensity  of  his 
application.  He  could  do  very  well  with  a  pencil, 
but  his  colour  was  invariably  as  flat  as  the  canvas. 
M.  Monier  had  a  fine  contempt  for  what  he  styled 
"  charcoal  draughtsmen."  He  would  say  to  his  pupils, 
M  If  you  can't  learn  to  draw  as  you  paint,  you  are  in 
the  wrong  school.  You  may  do  very  well  as  an 
architect;  you  will  be  of  no  earthly  good  as  an 
artist."  Those  who  persisted  in  the  belief  that  it 
is  necessary  to  learn  to  draw  with  a  pencil,  were 
compelled  to  choose  between  the  night  class  and 
some  other  school.  "I  won't  teach  mechanics  by 
sunlight,"  growled  the  old  artist  doggedly.  As  it 
was  esteemed  an  advantage  to  belong  to  the  Monier 
school,  which  was  limited  in  numbers,  and  had  the 
constant  care  of  its  honoured  founder,  the  even- 
ing class  was  full  despite  the  opprobrium  attached 
to  it.  Walter  Blakemore,  perhaps  induced  by  that 
spirit  of  chivalry  which  makes  a  Virginian  think 
that  he  must  choose  the  more  trying  of  any  two 

19 


MANDERS 

courses,  elected  to  stay  with  the  day  class,  despite 
frequent  admonitions  from  his  derisive  fellow  students 
"  to  go  and  join  the  charcoal  burners."  His  inability 
to  master  the  tones  and  shades  that  simulated  the 
hills  and  valleys  and  plateaus  of  the  microcosm  had 
become  a  class  legend.  When  one  student  borrowed 
a  trifle  of  another,  the  bond  offered  was  some  such 
jest  as,  "I'll  repay  you  when  Blakemore  learns  to 
draw,"  a  phrase  that  came  to  stand  for  any  indefinite 
duration  of  time.  Blakemore  at  first  had  the  indis- 
cretion to  resent  these  mockeries  of  his  talent,  and 
made  frequent  and  rash  offers  to  "  clean  out  the  class," 
offers  at  which  his  fellows  railed  exasperatingly, 
declaring  that  the  only  fearful  thing  about  him  was 
his  brush.  But  one  morning  when  the  badgering 
was  more  than  commonly  persistent  Blakemore  had 
withstood  it  with  a  composure  that  was  most  dis- 
concerting to  the  others.  "  I'll  beat  you  fellows  yet," 
he  said  with  so  much  calmness  that  it  sounded  very 
like  the  declaration  of  one  quite  able  to  carry 
determination  into  effect.  There  was  a  roar  of 
mockery  to  be  sure,  but  M.  Monier,  who  entered  in 
time  to  hear  the  prophetic  menace,  exclaimed  heartily, 
"  It  wouldn't  surprise  me  in  the  least,  my  boy.  The 
spirit  is  everything.  Application,  resolution,  courage, 
patience — that  is  all  there  is  to  genius — you'll  find 
genius  in  those  words  if  you  look  for  it,  and  you 
cannot  get  hold  of  the  real  article  without  them, 
Well,  young  gentlemen,"  he  said  with  a  sudden 
change  of  manner,  and  rubbing  his  hands  together 

23 


MANDERS 

in  »  sort  of  self  felicitation,  "  I've  some  pretty  news 
for  you.  We  are  not  to  have  Antony  this  morning. 
"No,  you  shall  have  a  new  model  if  you  will,  and 
Antony  may  go  to  the  night  class,  eh  ? " 

There  were  some  murmurs.  Antony  was  a  shaggy 
ruffian  who  might  have  been  one  of  the  mountain 
bandits  of  his  native  Italy  before  this  reverend 
whiteness  got  into  his  hair  and  beard;  several  of 
the  students  were  eager  to  try  their  hand  at  his 
strong  features  and  rugged  torso. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Monier,  "  you  shall  choose."  He 
made  a  sign  to  the  massier  and  Marie  was  ushered  in. 

"  If  you  please,  M'am'selle,"  bowing,  and  pointing  to 
the  curtain  behind  which  Marie  retired.  M.  Monier 
seemed  very  well  satisfied  with  himself.  He  moved 
about  humming  unrelated  fragments  of  operas,  saying 
now  and  then  to  one  or  another  of  the  grumblers, 
"  You  shall  choose !  Antony,  if  you  will ! "  with  the 
manner  of  being  quite  convinced  that  there  could  be 
no  choice  in  the  matter. 

Presently  Marie  emerged  from  the  curtained  corner. 
With  the  utmost  gravity  M.  Monier,  suppressing 
every  external  sign  of  exultation  for  what  he  read  in 
the  students'  faces,  conducted  Marie  to  the  shade. 
"Gentlemen,  this  is  Roder's  Eve,  will  you  take 
that  pose,  M'am'selle?" 

Marie,  smiling  a  little  proudly,  assumed  the  desired 
attitude. 

"You  recognise  it,  gentlemen?"  M.  Monier  spoke 
with  an  assumption  of  indifference  that  perhaps 

81 


MANDERS 

deceived  no  one  but  himself,  for  the  hum  of  admira- 
tion and  the  exclamations  of  artistic  appreciation 
left  him  no  doubt  that  Antony  would  become  the 
prey  of  the  charcoal  burners. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  Marie  resumed  herself, 
and  felt  again  the  flow  of  nature  through  her  veins. 
There  was  a  rebound  of  vitality.  No  longer  feeling 
herself  under  constraints  of  a  semi-conventional  life, 
she  imagined  herself  restored  to  the  impulsive  girl- 
hood from  which  marriage  had  too  unwisely  snatched 
her.  Forms  and  conditions  and  a  reason  for  things 
were  swept  away  from  the  province  of  her  being, 
and  she  was  no  more  to  be  held  to  account  than 
were  the  sparrows  which  fed  on  her  window  ledge, 
when  she  broke  crumbs  to  them  to  please  Manders. 
And  Marie  grew  younger,  and  prettier,  and  gayer 
under  a  happiness  that  she  took  in  as  unconsciously 
as  she  breathed  the  air.  She  radiated  so  much  cheer 
that  all  the  class  partook  of  it,  and  the  painting 
lessons  became  labours  of  love,  even  Blakemore 
coming  under  the  influence  of  the  enthusiasm 
sufficiently  to  establish  a  respectable  relation  be- 
tween the  thing  aimed  at  and  the  thing  performed. 

Marie  came  to  feel  a  sympathy  with  the  young 
student  who  seemed  to  her  bent  upon  achieving 
success  in  a  pursuit  for  which  he  had  the  least 
aptitude.  He  was  but  little  more  than  her  own  age, 
and  she  thought  him  an  exceptionally  good  example 
of  his  sex, — tall,  broad-shouldered,  fair,  proud  in  a 
way,  but  with  a  smile  that  was  the  key  to  any  heart 

22 


MANDERS 

he  cared  to  unlock.  He  had,  moreover,  an  air  of 
gentility  that  made  its  impression  upon  her,  so  that 
to  her  sympathy  was  added  a  great  deal  of  respect. 
After  two  or  three  mornings  Marie  found  herself 
looking  with  increasing  interest  upon  his  canvas  as 
she  passed  it  on  her  way  to  and  from  the  estrade. 
She  began  to  hope  that  he  would  get  on ;  but 
generally  she  experienced  a  penitential  regret  as  if 
she  herself  were  in  some  way  to  blame  for  his  slow 
advancement. 

This  mood  was  heavily  upon  her  one  day  when  he 
seemed  to  be  more  than  usually  earnest  and  less  than 
ever  productive.  It  was  near  the  end  of  her  third 
week.  "  Poor  Monsieur  Blakemore  ! "  she  murmured 
to  herself  as  she  dressed  behind  the  curtain.  Then 
by  degrees,  a  little  with  each  garment  she  put  on, 
the  idea  came  into  her  slow  little  brain  that,  perhaps, 
she  might  help  him.  There  was  a  pleasant  stimulus 
to  her  fancy  in  the  thought  She  knew  very  well 
that  Blakemore  nursed  a  sort  of  dejected  ambition  to 
have  his  work  recognised  in  the  class  exhibition,  and 
her  thought  was  that  there  really  might  be  a  pos- 
sibility if  only  he  could  have  more  time  than  the 
others  at  his  work.  She  decided  to  give  him  the 
opportunity.  That  is  why  she  lingered  behind  the 
evergreens  of  the  little  cafe*  across  from  the  gare  Mt. 
Parnasse,  waiting  until  Blakemore  should  come  along. 
He  appeared  after  a  time,  and  Marie,  free  from  the 
affectations  of  coquetry,  yet  not  without  reserve,  came 
forward  to  meet  him.  There  were  no  words  wasted 


MANDERS 

in  needless  preliminaries.  Models  and  students  are 
not  stupefied  by  conventions.  Marie  smiled  and  held 
out  her  hand.  Marie  could  smile  like  the  Madonna 
Dolorosa,  if  any  one  can  understand  what  I  mean  by 
that.  A  smile  that  at  once  pities  and  assuages  the 
grief  of  humanity.  Marie  imagined  there  was  a 
necessity  in  the  present  instance  to  pour  out  this 
balm  of  healing  and  refreshment.  Blakemore  under- 
stood something  of  this  when  he  looked  into  her  face, 
and  he  answered  her  smile  before  she  had  spoken 
a  word. 

"  This  is  mighty  nice  of  you,  Marie.  By  George ! 
I  believe  you  read  my  thoughts  in  the  class  this 
morning."  He  spoke  laughingly,  taking  her  by  the 
arm  and  moving  up  the  boulevard  with  her.  "  Then 
you  don't  think  me  quite  hopeless  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  Monsieur  Walter ! " 

The  reproachfulness  of  her  tone  was  lost  in  the 
comical  turn  she  always  gave  his  name,  which  she 
pronounced  "Voltaire,"  with  a  sustained  rising  in- 
flection on  the  final  syllable.  Marie  spoke  very  good, 
that  is  to  say  fairly  grammatical,  English  queerly. 
Her  words  fell  into  order  in  general  accord  with 
rules,  the  result  of  her  six  years'  fidelity  to  the 
exactions  of  an  English  husband,  but  it  was  some- 
times necessary  to  make  a  reflective  analysis  of  un- 
accustomed sounds  before  one  could  be  certain  of 
many  of  her  words.  But  there  was  an  artless  charm 
in  her  speech  that  went  very  far  toward  persuading 
a  masculine  hearer  that  expression  could  not  be 


MANDERS 

better.  Blakemore  was  much  gratified  by  the  friend- 
liness of  her  reproachful  exclamation. 

"Then  you  don't  despise  me  for  the  way  I  am 
doing  you?" 

"I  suppose  I  should  be  very  angry  with  anyone 
who  makes  me  look  'muddy'"  she  said,  peeping 
up  at  him  archly.  "But  one  has  to  learn,  is  it 
not  so,  Monsieur  Walter?  And  I  thought  that, 
perhaps,  if  you  had  more  time — I  mean  more 
time  with  the  model — you  might — eh,  Monsieur 
Walter?" 

"  Clear  you  up  a  bit  ?  that  never  occurred  to  me ! 
And  will  you  do  it?"  he  inquired,  with  eagerness. 
"  Will  you  give  me  the  time  ?  I'd  be  sure  to  come 
out  all  right !  And  I'd  pay  you  better  than  they  do 
at  the  school,  tool" 

"  Oh,  as  for  that — "  she  began  with  a  pretty 
protesting  flirt  of  the  hand.  But  Blakemore  inter- 
rupted with  the  rush  of  one  anxious  to  conclude  an 
advantageous  bargain. 

"When  can  I  have  you?" 

"  Oh !    every  afternoon." 

"But  I  can't  come  in  the  afternoons — that  is  to 
say  seldom.  How  about  the  evenings  ? " 

Her  superior  knowledge  of  art  rebuked  his  uncal- 
culating  ardour.  "But  you  can't  paint  at  night, 
Monsieur  Walter !  Think  of  your  colours ! " 

"Hang  the  colours,  Marie!  The  bother  with  me 
is  form.  Besides  it's  all  nonsense  this  raving  about 
daylight.  I  would  just  as  lief  have  the  effects  got 

25 


MANDERS 

by  gaslight.  Fm  going  in  to  be  original,  anyway. 
Let  us  say  evening,  eh  ? " 

"  Very  well,"  she  assented,  a  little  amused. 

"Then  it's  settled.  Yon  know  where  my  rooms 
are?" 

"  Oh !  but  yon  must  come  to  ma  I  cannot  leave 
my  little  one." 

She  said  this  with  an  air  of  comical  importance. 
It  rather  pleased  her  to  make  conditions.  It  gave 
her  a  feeling  of  authority  to  which  she  was  not 
used. 

"  You  may  come  to-night." 

"But  to-night  I  have  an  engagement!  I  could 
come  after  ten,  though.  How  would  that  suit 
you  ? " 

"  The  hour  is  nothing  to  me.  One  time  or  another 
as  you  please." 

"  To-night,  then.  I'll  begin  at  ten.  Do  you  know, 
Marie,  you  are  a  deucedly  accommodating,  nice  girl  ? 
I'm  awfully  obliged  to  you.  I'll  beat  those  fellows 
yet!  See  if  I  don't.  By  George!  I'll  make  you  a 
handsome  present  if  I  da  You  can  have  anything 
you  ask  for  I" 

"You'd  better  not  promise  that,"  she  said  with 
a  sagely  warning  shake  of  the  head.  "  I  have  been 
thinking  of  a  little  house  with  a  garden!" 

"Oh!" 

She  laughed  at  him.  He  walked  with  her  as  far 
as  the  observatory,  and  their  special  bargain  was 
made,  for  Blakemore  viewed  the  matter  in  a  strictly 

36 


MANDERS 

commercial  light  as  far  as  Marie's  services  were  con- 
cerned. She  was  to  have  forty  francs  a  week, 
considerably  more  than  she  got  at  the  school,  for 
the  time  she  might  pose  for  him.  She  would  have 
preferred  to  give  her  services  to  help  this  handsome, 
inept  student  to  success;  but  as  Blakemore  had 
plenty  of  this  world's  goods  he  could  see  no  virtue 
in  Marie's  vague  scheme  of  useless  self-devotion. 
She  sighed  as  she  consented.  In  her  precious 
shallow  pate  she  had  set  up  a  glowing  shrine 
sacrificial  to  a  pretty  heroism,  and  it  disappointed 
her  that  Blakemore  turned  out  to  be  prodigal 
rather  than  impecunious. 

Manders  was  snugly  in  bed  and  serenely  asleep 
when  Blakemore  came  to  begin  his  strategic  labours 
that  night  As  the  two  conspirators  were  thoroughly 
in  earnest  there  was  no  time  wasted  in  idle  formali- 
ties. Blakemore  set  up  his  easel  and  arranged  his 
paints  and  brushes,  a  new  outfit  procured  for  the 
occasion,  while  Marie  prepared  to  repeat  her  pose 
of  the  morning.  The  subject  was  a  somewhat 
whimsical  treatment  of  the  "  Desolate  Ariadne  "  pros- 
trate upon  the  sea-shore.  Marie's  sommier  served 
imperfectly  to  typify  the  wave-serried  sands  upon 
which  she  curved  in  delicate  nudity.  The  pose  was 
an  easy  one  to  keep  for  any  reasonable  length  of 
time,  but  Blakemore,  utterly  absorbed  in  his  work, 
quite  forgot  the  running  minutes,  and  the  period 
for  rest  came  and  passed  and  came  again  without 
admonishing  him.  Marie  was  not  disposed  to  inter- 

27 


MANDERS 

rapt  him.  They  had  scarcely  spoken  since  he  first 
moistened  his  brush.  This  young  man  was,  in  spite 
of  a  certain  moral  variableness,  one  of  those  strenuous 
creatures  who  have  a  way  of  getting  quite  inside 
their  occupation;  "the  conquerors"  some  absurd 
philosopher  has  styled  them.  Marie  could  see  the 
expression  of  increasing  satisfaction  in  his  face  as  he 
applied  himself  in  freedom  from  critical  or  satirical 
comment,  and  it  pleased  her.  Considerably  after  an 
hour  of  this  concentrated  work  Blakemore  uttered 
an  exclamation  of  self-appreciation. 

"  I  am  getting  it,  Marie ! " 

"  I  am  happy,  monsieur." 

He  pushed  back  in  his  chair  in  contemplative  way, 
his  brush  poised  hi  readiness  for  any  sudden  inspira- 
tion. "  That  is  going  to  be  something  like." 

Marie  rose  under  the  influence  of  his  enthusiasm, 
and  came  to  look   over  his  shoulder.     Really  the 
result  wasn't  so  bad.     There  was  chance  for  an  en 
couraging  word. 

"Oh!  it  is  beautiful !" 

"Not  just  that,  Marie.  That  is  a  little  strong. 
But  it  is  coming  on  !  I'll  show  those  fellows  yet ! 
You  are  a  brick,  Marie."  He  looked  up.  Recollec- 
tion seized  him.  "  By  George  !  I've  been  a  brute. 
I've  let  the  fire  go  down  !  I've  kept  you  at  it  a  beast 
of  a  time !  Why  didn't  you  throw  something  at  me  ? 
Are  you  cold  ?  Wrap  this  blanket  around  you.  I'll 
rebuild  the  fire." 

M  Oh  1  I  am  not  cold  ;  not  tired,"  she  had  been  pro- 
a8 


MANDERS 

testing  during  his  self-reproaches  and  hurried  move- 
ments. "  I  am  so  happy  that  I  am  really  helping 
you.  Come ;  let  us  go  on  ! " 

"  No,"  he  said,  as  if  he  were  mastering  a  great 
temptation,  "I  am  not  ruffian  enough  for  that. 
Besides,  I'm  very  well  satisfied.  I  have  reached  a 
point — and  I've  caught  a  trick  !  Do  you  see  the 
curve  on  that  shoulder?  Monier  could  not  do 
better  1  That  itself  is  good  enough  for  one  night. 
It  was  an  inspiration  you  proposing  this  plan  to  me. 
It's  going  to  be  the  making  of  me ;  I'm  certain  of  it. 
I'm  going  to  kiss  you  for  it.  There !  Well,  shall  I 
help  you  to  dress  ? " 

"  No,"  she  said,  smiling  at  the  idea  of  anyone  help- 
ing her  to  dress  ;  and  then  a  pensive  look  stole  away 
the  smile  as  she  remembered  that  Manders  pere  had 
liked  to  help  her  in  the  days  of  the  honeymoon, 
and  before  he  was  Manders  pere.  Possibly  there 
was  just  the  tinge  of  sadness  in  her  voice  as  she 
added,  "  I  shall  not  dress.  I  shall  just  put  on  my 
night-gown  and  slippers — unless  you  will  let  me  get 
you  something  to  eat  ?  " 

"  No,  I'll  get  something  to  eat  at  Petitfour's.  By 
the  way,  why  not  come  along  with  me  ?  It  ia  early 
yet.  Everybody  will  be  there." 

"  But  I  cannot  leave  my  little  one." 

"  You  should  have  a  'bonne." 

'  Oh,  no.  I  like  it  better  to  take  care  of  him  my- 
self. We  are  such  good  friends,  and  he  is  so  wise ! 
Ah  !  as  for  that,  sometimes  I'm  much  afraid  of  him, 

29 


MANDERS 

he  is  so  wise  and  I  so  foolish."    She  said  this  in  a 
deprecating  way,  but  laughed  as  well. 

"  Manders  is  a  jolly  little  chap,  and  you  are  a  good 
girl,  Marie.  I'm  going  to  be  interested  in  you  both, 
I  see  that." 

"  But  you  don't  know  my  little  one." 

"  I'm  going  to,  though.  And  you  forget  that  I  have 
been  introduced  to  him.  You  know  he  knocked  his 
ball  into  me  in  the  gardens  one  afternoon." 

This  was  an  amusing  reminder  to  Marie,  and  an 
agreeable  one  as  well,  of  an  incident  that  occurred  the 
third  day  after  she  had  returned  to  posing  for  M. 
Monier's  class.  It  was  this  petty  accident  that  had 
fixed  her  notice  upon  Blakemore.  She  had  taken 
Manders  into  the  Luxembourg  gardens  for  a  romp, 
and  their  ball  tossing,  in  happy  disregard  of  persons 
passing,  had  been  to  the  injury  of  Blakemore's 
radiant  silk  hat.  He  was  so  gracious  about  it  and 
patted  the  abashed  Manders  so  comfortingly  on 
the  shoulder,  and  said  so  flatteringly  to  Marie,  "  Oh, 
you  are  our  pretty  new  model,  aren't  you?"  that 
-larie  could  not  help  exploring  the  class  for  him 
next  day.  That  is  how  her  sympathy  with  him 
began. 

"  You  were  droll,"  she  said,  "  but  very  nice ! " 

"Yes,  a  man  is  always  comical  with  his  hat 
knocked  off." 

He  had  got  the  fire  going  and  Marie,  in  gown 
and  slippers,  seated  herself  before  the  cheering 
flame. 

30 


MANDERS 

*  This  is  good,  she  said.  "  Won't  you  sit  down, 
too?" 

"  Yes,  long  enough  to  safe-guard  this  wet  paint  a 
little,  then  I'll  bundle  it  up  and  be  off.  I'm  going  to 
leave  my  easel  and  paints  here." 

"  Of  course,"  she  assented. 

Soon  after,  Blakemore  went  away,  but  instead 
of  going  to  Petitfour's  he  stopped  at  an  unfre- 
quented place  and  had  a  bit  of  supper.  He  was  not 
in  the  vein  for  the  conversation  of  revellers  and 
idlers.  Ideals  were  spinning  their  illusions  through 
his  brain.  He  could  not  just  decide  why,  but  he  felt 
a  confidence  in  himself  nothing  had  awakened  before. 
He  had  done  his  first  hour  of  really  absorbing  work, 
work  that  was  shadowed  by  no  self-consciousness,  no 
sensitive  dread  of  disparagement,  and  the  result 
struck  him  as  good.  He  was  very  grateful  to  Marie. 
It  was  all  due  to  her.  She  had  given  him  the  right 
impulsion.  He  had  a  jubilant  sense  of  the  end  to 
which  it  would  carry  him,  for  he  had  in  this  felicit- 
ous way  got  hold  of  the  clue  that  should  guide  him 
out  of  the  maze  in  which  he  had  been  groping  for 
more  than  a  year.  He  had  laid  hands  on  himself, 
so  to  speak.  He  strolled  home  in  the  light  of  the 
low-hung  stars,  and  thought  them  larger  and  more 
brilliant,  and  the  texture  of  the  purple-black  curtain 
behind  them  richer  in  velvet  bloom  than  he  had  ever 
seen  them  before.  Very  sweet  are  the  first  sips  from 
the  poisoned  chalice  that  Ambition  holds  smilingly 
to  the  lips  of  the  credulous !  Blakemore  went  home 


MANDERS 

to  lie  down  to  rosy  dreams  in  the  clear  perspective 
of  which  was  a  salon  picture  hung  on  the  line. 

He  was  early  at  Marie's  the  next  night.  The  table 
had  just  been  cleared,  and  Manders  was  marshalling 
his  tin  soldiers  under  the  lamp's  light.  Manders  came 
forward  to  have  his  head  patted  and  to  make  an 
apologetic  little  speech  relative  to  the  incident  of  the 
misdirected  ball.  Blakemore  gave  the  boy's  cheek  a 
friendly  pinch. 

"I  think  it  was  iny  hat  that  got  in  the  way, 
Manders." 

"Oh,  I  knew  that  all  the  time,  monsieur.  Well, 
I'm  just  going  to  kill  some  Germans." 

"Take  care  they  don't  kill  you,"  laughed  Blake- 
more. 

"Oh,  they  can't  do  thatl  Je  suis  Anglais," 
declared  Manders  conclusively,  as  he  went  back  to 
his  play. 

"  He  is  his  father's  child,  Marie." 

"Oh!  yeslj"  she  smiled  sweetly.  "I  am  quite 
afraid  of  him.  He  is  so  wise." 

"  He  is  all  right.     Well,  shall  we  get  to  work  ! " 

"  I  shall  be  ready  as  soon  as  you,  monsieur." 

Soon  Blakemore  was  engrossed  in  his  work,  and 
Manders  was  no  less  attentive  to  his  battles.  War 
is  a  very  absorbing  pastime.  It  is  even  more 
peremptory  than  painting,  and  the  child,  directing 
the  prodigies  of  fate,  was  wholly  oblivious  to  what 
passed  behind  him,  although  Blakemore  was  full 
of  talkative  ardour  this  evening.  At  length,  when 


MANDERS 

the  victory  which  he  foresaw  was  complete,  Manders 
turned  with  an  exultant  shout. 

"  They  are  all  dead,  maman ! " 

His  glance  took  in  the  painter  and  his  model  before 
he  had  done  speaking,  and  the  last  word  was  almost 
lost  from  the  sentence,  muffled  as  if  there  were  not 
breath  to  utter  it-  distinctly.  The  boy  stood  trans- 
fixed for  a  moment.  The  laughter  drifted  away 
from  his  face,  and  a  curious  infantine  look  of 
surprise  came  in  the  place  of  it.  A  gradual  intelli- 
gence took  hold  upon  him.  Something  he  did  not 
understand  began  to  master  him  in  the  clenching  of 
his  little  fists,  in  the  clouding  of  his  curl-draped  face. 
The  blood  left  his  cheeks,  and  the  gust  of  a  ghostly 
tragedy  touched  and  froze  his  heart  till  the  pain  of 
it  hurt  him,  and  he  cried  out — a  cry  so  sharp,  so 
savage,  so  unlike  the  cry  of  a  child,  that  the  others 
were  startled  by  it;  but  before  they  were  aware 
what  it  meant,  the  little  man  had  rushed  against 
the  easel,  beating  it  down  with  his  fists,  and  had 
flung  himself  shelteringly  upon  the  nude  breast  of 
his  mother. 

Blakemore,  amazed,  imagining  that  some  accident 
had  happened,  came  towards  the  child,  who  was 
pouring  out  an  unintelligible  jargon  of  furious  sounds. 
As  Blakemore  approached  inquiringly,  Manders  turned 
upon  him  fiercely  and  shouted, — 

"Don't  touch  my  maman!  Don't  dare  to  touch 
my  maman ! "  Words  the  more  menacing  for  being 
spoken  in  French. 

O 


MANDERS 

Singularly  enough,  Blakemore  had  no  inclination 
to  laugh.  On  the  contrary,  he  looked  in  arrested 
wonderment  at  the  child,  and  then  his  eyes  turned  in 
appeal  to  the  mother;  but  Marie,  holding  Manders 
with  one  arm  close  against  her  breast,  was  trying  in 
vain  to  draw  protectingly  about  her  the  cover  of  the 
couch,  her  face  scarlet  with  shame,  her  hot  tears 
raining  down  upon  the  curls  of  her  boy. 

Blakemore  understood.  Eve  had  become  conscious 
of  her  nakedness.  A  well-fortified  man  of  the  world, 
or  even  one  who  had  reached  the  cynical  stage  of  the 
sexual  cult,  would  have  seen  the  humour  of  the 
situation.  But  Blakemore  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
a  youth  in  earnest.  He  felt  a  ridiculous  tightness 
in  his  throat,  and  recognised  his  helplessness  as  he 
gazed  upon  these  two  children,  the  one  quivering  in 
the  defence  of  an  idol  assailed,  the  other  tremulous 
in  unmerited  self-abasement.  Knowing  nothing  better 
to  do,  Blakemore  took  up  his  hat  and  stole  softly  out 
of  the  room. 


CHAPTER   III 

WHEN,  next  morning,  M.  Monier,  observing  a  fixed 
rule,  came  into  the  atelier  an  hour  after  the  time  at 
which  the  class- work  should  have  begun,  he  found  the 
students,  twenty  in  number,  standing  or  lounging  idly 
about,  with  their  canvases  untouched.  The  unwonted 
noise  he  heard  as  he  came  up  the  stairs  had  fore- 
warned him  of  something  amiss,  but  he  was  none  the 
less  surprised  to  see  his  usually  industrious  pupils 
unemployed. 

"  Why  are  you  not  at  work  ? "  he  asked,  as  he 
surveyed  the  groups  from  the  doorway. 

"That  is  what  we  would  like  to  know,"  came  in 
responsive  chorus.  "What  have  you  done  with 
Marie?"  There  was  so  much  concert  unanimity  in 
the  demand  that  M.  Monier  suspected  a  reheaual, 
and  to  forestall  any  planned  impertinence,  he  put 
himself  into  a  rage  of  remonstrance.  He  could  storm 
very  well,  and  with  so  much  suitability  of  savage 
aspect  that  the  most  familiar  of  his  pupils  never 
doubted  the  genuineness  of  his  wrath.  He  alone 
knew  the  hypocrisy  of  it.  In  the  confessional  of  his 
private  emotions,  M.  Monier  pitifully  admitted  that 

35 


MANDERS 

his  heart  had  been  beaten  to  a  pulp  by  human 
sympathies,  and  was  no  longer  capable  of  resistance 
to  the  plaints  of  frailty.  The  contradictory  weaknesses 
of  his  character  were  known,  however,  in  more  than 
one  squalid  abode  in  the  poor  districts  through  which 
he  prowled  of  an  afternoon,  "  looking  for  material,"  as 
he  said  to  any  chance-met  acquaintance,  but  in  reality 
putting  into  practice  some  crude  notions  of  com- 
munism he  had  imbibed  with  his  mother's  milk.  It  is 
not,  perhaps,  a  pleasant  commentary  on  the  prejudices 
of  our  modern  society  that  one  should  be  ashamed  of 
one's  philanthropy  and  try  to  conceal  its  donative 
phases.  But  man  born  of  the  flesh  must  take  note 
of  the  conceits  of  the  flesh,  and  we  have  made  it 
axiomatic  that  he  who  giveth  openly  hath  an  axe 
that  needeth  an  edge.  The  spirit  of  diplomacy 
which  led  M.  Monier  to  mask  his  benevolence  with 
a  niggardliness  in  personal  expenditure,  taught  him 
to  hide  his  sentimental  infirmities  under  a  brusquerie 
of  speech  and  a  severity  of  manner  that  had  at  least 
the  virtue  of  keeping  in  subjection  those  of  his  pupils 
who  subordinated  the  exactions  of  art  to  the  blandish- 
ments of  pleasure. 

Therefore,  imagining  that  the  show  of  idleness 
argued  a  purpose  to  frolic  that  might  involve  a 
joke  at  his  expense,  M.  Monier  launched  into  such 
a  flood  of  invective  and  abuse  as  temporarily 
stunned  the  students  into  silence.  "  Paresseux  I " 
with  a  finely  ironical  prolongation  of  the  final 
syllable,  was  the  most  complimentary  term  dis- 

36 


MANDERS 

charged  through  the  shaggy  moustache  that 
ambushed  his  kindly  modelled  lips.  He  strode  to 
the  platform,  which  he  mounted,  gesticulating  and 
volleying  as  he  went,  and  continued  his  harangue 
until  he  had  but  breath  enough  to  order  the  students 
to  set  to  work. 

Seizing  upon  the  advantage  which  exhausted 
nature  gave  into  their  hands,  the  students  with  one 
accord,  and  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  repeated  their 
salutatory  demand, — 

"  What  have  you  done  with  Marie  ? " 

For  the  first  time  M.  Monier  noticed  the  absence 
of  the  model.  He  looked  about  him.  She  could  not 
be  in  hiding;  there  was  no  place  for  concealment, 
the  curtain  of  the  dressing  corner  being  looped  up 
and  the  barrel  near  by  offering  too  snug  a  retreat 
for  Marie's  by  no  means  diminutive  body.  Besides, 
a  calmer  regard  of  the  faces  before  him  convinced 
the  master  that  he  had  been  theatrical  without 
reason,  and  a  touch  of  chagrin  subdued  him  into 
apologetic  mildness.  He  felt,  too,  some  anxiety  on 
Marie's  account.  She  was  punctuality's  self.  Her 
custom  was  to  be  in  waiting  as  the  class  assembled. 
She  had  not  been  late  a  morning.  Most  certainly 
Marie  was  ill 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  gentlemen.  I  am  to  blame 
for  scolding  you.  But  if  we  cannot  have  one  model, 
we  must  do  with  another.  I  saw  an  old  woman  in 
the  passage.  Call  her  in,  someone." 

The  mossier  retired,  and  presently  returned  ac- 


MANDERS 

companied  by  Mere  Pugens,  who  carried  under  her 
arm  a  square  frame  half  covered  by  a  copy  of  the 
Figaro. 

"Make  haste,  my  good  woman,  get  ready,"  said 
M.  Monier.  Then,  turning  a  wry  face  to  the  students, 
he  added,  "  We  must  content  ourselves  with  charcoal 
this  morning.  No  time  to  get  new  canvases  ready." 

This  solemn  announcement  was  received  with  a 
roar  of  derisive  laughter. 

"We  don't  want  to  draw  spheres,"  said  someone. 

M.  Monier  himself  smiled.  Mere  Pugens  was 
rather  round.  It  was  difficult  to  say  where  one 
curve  left  off  and  another  began,  the  geometrical 
progression  was  so  carelessly  defined. 

Interpreting  the  amusement  of  the  class  in  her 
own  way,  Mere  Pugens,  addressing  herself  to  the 
master,  said  with  some  little  asperity, — 

"Oh!  you  may  laugh  at  the  old  woman  now,  M. 
Monier,  but  I  remember  very  well  the  time  when 
you  thought  Ernestine  Naquet  quite  a  tidy  figure 
on  the  platform !  You  were  a  student  yourself  in 
those  days,  M.  Monier,  and  not  above  taking  liberties, 
as  I  am  alive  to  swear.  Oh !  mon  Dieu,  yes !  I  could 
tell  these  pretty  gentlemen  that  you  used  to  smile 
in  quite  another  way  when  this  same  Mere  Pugens 
— who  wasn't  Mere  Pugens  then — came  to  pose  in 
the  lamplight  two  flights  up  in  the  dirty  alley  off 
the  Rue  de  Sevres.  Not  so  very  long  ago,  neither, 
if  thirty  years  are  half  a  lifetime !  And  let  me  tell 
you,  gentlemen,  it  was  not  posing  that  gave  me  up ; 

38 


MANDERS 

it  was  I  that  gave  up  posing,  I,  myself!  And  do 
you  think  I  have  brought  my  respectability  here 
n\w  to  be  painted  after  I  have  established  myself 
in  .k-he  world?  Not  at  all,  M.  Monier!  That  is 
what  I  come  for,  M.  Blakemore,"  thrusting  the 
package  she  carried  into  Blakemore's  unwilling 
hands,  "and  to  tell  you,  M.  Monier,  that  Madame 
Manders  is  done  with  posing,  too.  I  might  have 
said  it  as  prettily  as  she  told  me  if  I  had  found 
pretty  people  to  say  it  to — but  a  service  soonest  done 
is  best  done.  Good  morning ! " 

Mere  Pugens,  drawing  her  undulations  into  such 
dignity  of  carriage  as  she  might,  turned  herself 
toward  the  door,  singularly  rosy  of  countenance. 

"  And  is  it  really  you,  Ernestine  ? "  M.  Monier 
called  after  her  laughingly,  yet  not  unblushingly. 

"  Not  at  all !  not  at  all !  Only  a  fat  old  woman, 
at  your  service ! "  responded  good  Mere  Pugens,  as  she 
went  out,  leaving  the  door  open  behind  her.  It  is 
a  fact  in  natural  philosophy  that  ponderous  persons 
never  slam  doors.  That  variety  of  emotional  ex- 
pression is  reserved  to  the  lymphatic  temperament. 

If  M.  Monier  had  any  misgivings  as  to  the  effect  of 
Mere  Pugens'  somewhat  imaginative  revelations  on 
the  minds  and  spirits  of  his  pupils,  they  were  soon 
dispelled.  Those  young  gentlemen,  unmindful  of  him, 
were  expectantly  interested  in  the  tell-tale  counten- 
ance and  abashed  manner  of  Walter  Blakemore.  His 
awkward  attempt  to  secrete  the  unmistakable  pack- 
age by  thrusting  it  down  between  his  knees  attracted 

39 


MANDERS 

a  curious  attention  to  it.  He  was  surrounded  by  a 
crowd  of  chaffers  slangily  bantering  him  on  the 
conquest  of  a  brobdingnagian  Phyllis  with  a  chin 
beard,  and  demanding  to  see  her  portrait. 

Tom  Milsom,  who,  by  reason  of  his  diminutive 
stature,  was  the  admitted  bully  of  the  class,  and 
engineered  most  of  its  mischief,  made  a  sudden  dive 
for  the  frame,  upsetting  Blakemore  in  his  eagerness, 
and  tore  away  the  covering  as  he  raised  his  prize  to 
view. 

There  was  a  hoot  of  disappointment  from  the 
others.  Instead  of  new  sport  for  a  merry  morning, 
here  was  only  the  "study"  upon  which  Blakemore 
had  been  labouring  under  their  eyes  for  the  past 
week,  a  study  they  already  had  gibed  at  to  their 
satisfaction. 

"  But  wait  a  minute,  boys ! "  said  Milsom,  squaring 
the  canvas  on  to  an  easel, "  there  is  something  amus- 
ing about  it.  Don't  you  see ! "  He  turned  with  an 
expansive  smile  to  catch  the  expressions  of  his  fellows 
and  to  enjoy  the  confusion  of  Blakemore.  "  Isn't  it 
amusing?  Eh?  He  has  been  painting  by  lamp- 
light! You  can  hear  the  colours  howling.  I  told 
you  Blakemore  was  an  original,  didn't  I  ?  He's  going 
to  get  into  the  salon,  aren't  you,  Walter  ?  You  ought 
to  have  your  colours  better  labelled,  my  dear.  But  I 
daresay  it  doesn't  much  matter.  We  are  getting 
some  queer  notions  in  art.  It's  all  in  the  way  you 
see  things.  Eh,  M.  Monier?" 

M.   Monier  had  approached  the  group,   and  was 

40 


MANDERS 

looking  at  Blakemore's  work  with  a  seriousness  that 
arrested  Milsom's  nonsense.  He  came  nearer  and 
took  up  the  canvas. 

"Humph!  Yon  worked  on  this  last  night,  M. 
Blakemore  ? " 

"Yes,"  replied  Blakemore,  simply  enough,  but  it 
seemed  to  amuse  his  friends,  for  they  laughed. 

"Then  Marie  is  not  ill?"  said  M.  Monier,  as  he 
returned  the  canvas  to  its  place,  a  shrewd  gleam  in 
his  eyes. 

"How  should  I  know,  M.  Monier?  I  have  not 
seen  her  since  the  early  part  of  last  evening."  At 
the  same  time  there  was  a  guilt-offering  of  blushes 
in  Blakemore's  cheeks,  and  his  eye  wanted  its 
habitual  pride  of  candour.  Remarks  of  the  various 
kinds  that  rather  admit  of  hearing  than  of  repetition, 
but  which  lose  quality  when  paraphrased,  were  good- 
humouredly  hurled  at  him. 

"  Young  men  will  be  young  men,  and  women  will 
be  women,"  sagely  reasoned  M.  Monier,  running  his 
fingers  through  his  beard  and  looking  in  reproachful 
indulgence  upon  Blakemore;  "but  you  should  not 
have  stolen  our  favourite  model.  You  should  have 
robbed  some  other  studio.  Professional  ethics,  you 
know.  However,  you  have  shown  taste  in  your 
selection.  We  can  all  testify  that  your  mistress  is 
well  to  look  upon." 

M.  Monier  imagined  that  he  had  foreseen  some 
such  termination  to  the  exceptional  devotion  of  the 
class  to  this  one  model  for  whom  they  voted  with 


MANDERS 

scandalous  regularity  week  after  week,  except  when 
Marie  had  demanded  a  week  or  two  for  her  own 
pleasant  uses.  His  suspicion  had  not  rested  on 
Blakemore,  however,  and  it  did  not  altogether 
surprise,  though  it  mystified  him,  when  Blakemore, 
in  chivalrous  resentment  of  things  said  around  him, 
hotly  exclaimed, — 

"  You  are  a  lot  of  beasts,  who  don't  know  a  virtuous 
woman  from  a  cart-horse — " 

"  Nor  a  boudoir  from  a  billiard  table,"  volunteered  a 
withered  youth,  in  plum-coloured  velvet  suit,  from 
beneath  a  white  beret  that  overspread  him  like  a 
sunshade.  "  That  is  the  sort  of  not-particular  people 
we  are." 

"  You  are  not  getting  mad,  Blakie  ? "  queried 
Milsom,  giving  an  impish  twist  to  the  ends  of  his 
promissory  moustache.  "  Don't,  my  dear.  I  daresay 
you  are  quite  welcome  to  her — you  can  have  my  share  ; 
but  you  might  have  let  us  finish  out  with  her  here." 

"  Yes,  Blakemore,  let  us  have  her  for  the  rest  of 
the  week  ;  don't  be  a  pig."  This  was  said  with  that 
drawling  deliberateness  which  seems  to  be  a  protest 
against  the  necessity  of  speech,  an  almost  comical 
characteristic  of  Nelson  Parker,  an  Englishman  of 
Blakemore's  age,  and  unintentionally  a  close  com- 
petitor with  Blakemore  for  the  booby  prize  in 
drawing. 

"  Quite  right,  Blakemore  ;  Parker's  claims  are  as 
good  as  yours,  don't  forget,"  cried  out  someone, 
provoking  a  general  volley  that,  through  its  very 

4* 


MANDERS 

excesses,  restored  Blakemore  to  hie  good-humoured 
equilibrium.  His  gusts  of  temper  were  commonly 
followed  by  more  than  compensating  bursts  of  sunni- 
ness.  He  clambered  on  to  one  of  the  stools,  smiled 
charitably,  waved  his  hand  tranquillisingly  up  and 
down,  right  and  left,  and  secured  something  akin  to 
attentive  silence. 

M.  Monier,  who  was  in  the  doorway,  took  advan- 
tage of  the  lull  to  say, — 

"We  won't  do  anything  until  after  dejeuner. 
Afternoon  as  usual." 

A  shout  of  "Long  live  Monier"  followed  the  re- 
tiring master,  and  Blakemore  was  invited  to  begin 
his  confession. 

Blakemore's  voice  was  peculiarly  melodious  in 
speech,  and  the  rich  tones  gave  an  interest  to  his 
commonplaces.  "He  never  says  anything;  it  is  the 
way  he  says  it,"  was  a  sufficiently  descriptive  Hiber- 
nianism  of  Milsom's  to  account  for  the  readiness  to 
listen  to  the  young  Virginian  in  an  oratorical  mood. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  fellows  something,"  began 
Blakemore,  knocking  the  ash  from  his  cigarette  and 
expelling  a  cloud  from  his  lungs. 

"Put  it  in  'nigger,'  old  man,"  advised  the  youth 
under  the  white  beret. 

This  was  an  allusion  to  the  excellence  with  which 
Blakemore  imitated  the  delightful  dialect  of  the 
Southern  negro,  a  dialect  much  abused  by  persons 
who  know  it  only  as  they  learn  it  from  the  carica- 
ture of  negroes  seen  and  heard  on  the  minstrel  stage. 

43 


MANDERS 

"No,  I  want  to  be  serious  with  you,"  answered 
Blakemore.  "  I'm  not  going  to  make  a  speech,  either. 
But  I  want  you  to  understand  me.  I  am  not  a 
moralist."  (Interruptions  more  or  less  derisive.) 
"My  admiration  for  Joseph  has  its  iimits,  and  I 
never  took  much  stock  in  St  Anthony ;  but  there 
are  varieties  and  modifications  of  virtue  which  I 
very  much  respect." 

"  The  more  modified  the  better,"  interposed  Milsom. 

"It  may  be  the  fault  of  my  early  education," 
continued  Blakemore,  not  heeding  the  laughter  at 
Milsom 's  sally,  "but  it  is  my  rule  to  believe  every 
woman  imocent  until  she  prove  herself  guilty." 

"  You  should  go  out  more,"  said  Milsom,  borrowing 
a  light  from  his  neighbour. 

"  You  fellows  have  a  notion,  it  seems  to  me,  that 
every  girl  who  has  to  work  for  her  living  is  herself 
an  article  of  merchandise." 

"  Experientia  docet  is  a  very  respectable  maxim," 
remarked  Milsom. 

"  If  you  put  on  the  '  stultos,'  yes,"  retorted  Blake- 
more, "but  clear- witted  chaps  get  some  values  out 
of  their  own  centres  of  conscience."  (Cries  of  "  Oh ! 
oh!"  and  "What  are  you  getting  at?")  "I  just 
want  to  say  this  as  pleasantly  and  as  inoffensively 
as  the  circumstances  will  permit ; — when  I  see  a 
man  who  takes  it  for  granted  that  every  unpro- 
tected woman  is  a  cocotte,  I  suspect  that  he  is  a 
blackguard  who  is  doubtful  of  his  own  paternity." 

"Oh,  come,  I  say  now!     That's  putting  too  much 

44 


MANDERS 

bitters  in  the  sherry,"  remonstrated  the  white  beret. 
Others  echoed  him. 

"Now,  just  one  word  about  the  girl  you  think  I 
have  taken  for  a  mistress,"  said  Blakemore,  insist- 
ently, when  the  commotion  had  subsided  somewhat. 
Simply,  but  with  persuasive  earnestness,  he  told  of 
Marie's  offer  to  aid  him  in  his  work,  and,  with  a 
sensibility  that  surprised  himself,  described  the  in- 
cident of  the  evening  before.  The  picture  of  the 
moral  drama  in  the  modest  little  home  in  the  Rue 
St  Jacques  perhaps  took  too  much  colour  from  his 
own  emotions,  but  it  was  so  effectively  drawn  that 
even  Milsom  smoked  in  silence,  letting  pass  more 
than  one  opportunity  for  the  discharge  of  a  cynicism. 

"Three  cheers  for  little  Manders,"  said  the  white 
beret,  when  Blakemore  pointed  the  climax  of  his 
story  by  getting  down  from  the  stool. 

"  And  three  cheers  for  Marie,"  said  Parker.  "  She's 
all  right" 

Having  the  morning  at  his  disposal,  and  no  definite 
plan  to  occupy  the  time,  Blakemore  determined  to 
start  out  with  his  sketch-book  for  a  walk  along  the 
quaia.  Bathed  in  the  luminous  colours  of  a  June 
morning,  the  rich  green  of  the  overhanging  trees, 
and  the  opalescent  lights  of  the  craft-ruffled  river 
tempering  the  vivid  flame  to  a  harmony  with  the 
grey  of  the  houses  and  the  blue  of  the  sky,  he 
thought  there  could  be  no  place  in  the  world  to 
offer  more  inspiration  to  -an  appreciative  painter  than 
the  busy,  life-thronged  quais  of  Paris.  Here  was 

45 


MANDERS 

everything  but  altitude  and  distance  to  fill  full  the 
measure  of  desire.  Character  in  all  its  variations; 
riches  and  poverty  in  all  their  degrees;  happiness 
and  misery  in  their  extremes ;  romance  and  mechan- 
ism ;  poetry  and  materialism ;  infancy  and  age ;  here 
gathered  in  the  comforting  warmth  of  the  benches, 
or  under  the  shelter  of  the  stately,  carefully-tended 
trees,  or  on  the  breast  of  the  waters,  or  in  the  crowd 
of  the  streets,  quiescent  or  in  motion,  the  world  cen- 
tralised, types  of  the  nations  in  juxtaposition,  life 
epitome !  Yet  the  artists  of  Paris  housed  them- 
selves in  studios  in  vain  strivings  to  vitalise  the 
nude! 

Blakemore,  who  reasoned  with  himself  in  this  wise, 
did  not  yet  see  clearly  enough  the  obstacles  to  the 
carrying  out  of  the  plan  for  artistic  reformation  he 
had  formed  for  himself  in  this  particular.  He  was  to 
awaken  artists  to  a  realisation  of  the  possibilities 
of  the  quais,  possibilities  which  he  thought  were  too 
much  disregarded,  and  it  had  become  a  habit  prepara- 
tory to  this  mission  that,  in  idle  hours,  he  should  take 
his  sketch-book  and  pocket  box  of  colours  and  go 
down  to  some  chosen  spot  on  the  river  to  make  the 
little  aquarelles  which  were  to  authorise  his  future 
canvases.  If  there  were  no  foolish  enthusiasms  in 
youth,  there  would  be  no  noble  achievements  in 
maturity ;  and  the  world  owes  much  to  the  zeal  that 
breaks  in  pieces  on  the  rocks  of  its  own  uncovering. 

Going  a  little  out  of  his  way,  guided  by  an 
attraction  of  which  he  was  unconscious,  Blakemon 

46 


MANDERS 

•trolled  into  the  Luxembourg  Gardens.  There  was 
the  customary  swarm  of  children  of  all  ages  noisily 
engaged  in  their  various  sports,  and  he  recalled  the 
afternoon  in  the  first  days  of  spring  when  the  ball 
thrown  by  Manders  had  knocked  off  his  hat.  Doubt- 
less Marie  and  Manders  were  somewhere  in  the 
Gardens  now,  though  they  were  in  none  of  the 
groups  he  could  examine  about  him.  There  was  a 
crowd  about  the  empty  bandstand,  however.  He 
loitered  there  for  a  while.  He  hoped  he  might 
catch  sight  of  them,  and  yet  was  not  altogether 
sorry  not  to  come  upon  them.  He  was  not  quite 
sure  of  his  ground.  He  had  not  wholly  rid  himself 
of  a  sense  of  guiltiness  that  magnified  Manders  into 
a  formidable  person  whose  dignity  of  soul  had  been 
greatly  outraged.  Blakemore  did  not  like  the  idea 
of  being  abashed  by  the  gaze  of  a  child  to  whom 
he  could  not  explain  things.  This  reflection  grew 
in  importance  with  each  failure  to  identify  some 
woman  and  boy  with  the  objects  of  his  half-evasive 
search,  until  finally  he  got  into  retreat  before  it  and 
went  on  in  the  direction  of  the  north-east  gate. 
When  he  came  opposite  the  De  Medici  fountain, 
with  new  thoughts  in  his  mind  and  anxiety  sub- 
dued, an  urchin  in  blue  blouse,  over  the  shoulders 
of  which  danced  a  profusion  of  golden-brown  curls, 
came  running  across  the  walk  resolutely  calling, — 

"  Monsieur  Bla'ino' !     Monsieur  Bla'mo' ! " 

Blakemore  stopped. 

"Yes,   Manders."      He    smiled    in   a   propitiatory 

47 


MANDERS 

way  and  put  out  his  hand  hesitatingly.  He  had 
an  amused  recognition  of  the  fact  that  he  was 
afraid  the  boy  might  not  shake  hands  with  him. 

But  Manders  was  a  peace  messenger,  and  he 
promptly  thrust  his  own  into  the  outstretched  hand. 

"And  how  are  you  this  morning?"  There  was 
gratitude  in  Blakemore's  tone. 

Without  replying  to  the  question,  Manders,  who 
spoke  either  English  or  French  very  prettily  as 
occasion  required,  though  he  commonly  mixed  them, 
proceeded  immediately  to  declare  the  reason  of  the 
arrest 

"My  maman  says  I  am  to  tell  you  that  I  am 
very  sorry  that  I  was  not  genteel  last  night." 

"Well,  are  you?"  with  a  quizzical  smile. 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  like  being  rude,"  was 
the  diplomatic  answer. 

"You  were  not  rude.  You  were  a  very  manly 
little  fellow.  But  you  didn't  understand.  Do  you 
understand  now?" 

"Maman  told  me,  Monsieur  Bla'mo'."  He  said 
this  with  a  great  deal  of  gravity,  looking  frankly 
into  Blakemore's  eyes,  and  without  offering  to 
withdraw  the  hand  Blakemore  still  held  in  a  self- 
defensive  way. 

*  And  what  did  your  mamma  say  ? " 

"She  said  it  is  never  to  be  again."  Manders 
certainly  did  have  a  disturbingly  wise  way  for  one 
of  his  years.  He  spoke  quite  as  if  the  decision  were 
of  his  own  ordering. 

48 


MANDERS 

"  No  ;  it  is  never  to  be  again,"  assented  Blakemore, 
with  a  final  pressure  of  the  sturdy  little  hand.  "And 
you  and  I — are  we  to  be  good,  warm  friends  ? " 

"  Mam  an  says  you  are  a  very  nice  man,  and  that  I 
must  be  very  nice  to  you." 

"Where  is  your  mamma?" 

"Over  by  the  fountain.  There,  you  can  see  her 
leaning  over  the  railing,  by  the  last  urn.  She  saw 
you  coming  along  the  walk.  She  sent  me  to  you. 
But  I  should  have  come  anyhow  if  I  had  seen  you 
myself." 

"  Come,  then,  let  us  go  to  her." 

It  was  easy  enough  to  meet  Marie  now.  Indeed, 
he  thought  it  rather  strange  that  Marie  should  blush 
as  he  came  up,  and  be  so  eager  to  bend  over  Manders, 
kissing  him  repeatedly  as  if  he  had  returned  after 
a  long  absence,  forgetting  to  offer  her  hand,  and 
babbling  hurried  nothings  which  Blakemore  converted 
into  apologies  for  her  folly  of  the  evening  past.  He 
was  aware  of  a  pleasingly  aggressive  kind  of  happi- 
ness. The  soft  air  of  the  morning,  the  splashes  of 
sunshine,  the  moss-burnished,  time-darkened  stones  of 
the  fountain,  and  these  two  figures  in  the  immediate 
foreground,  conspired  to  strike  the  note  of  truancy 
in  his  spirit.  He  had  lost  his  morning;  why  not 
make  a  day  of  it  ?  The  idea  saved  him  from  any 
embarrassment  over  Marie's  unintelligible  murmurs  ; 
he  cheerily  disregarded  her  want  of  reserve. 

"  I  am  awfully  glad  I  happened  to  run  on  to  you, 
Marie.  I  was  just  going  to  take  a  boat  down  the 

D 


MANDERS 

river,  it  is  such  a  jolly  day  for  an  outing.  Come 
along  with  me.  Let's  go  to  St  Cloud  for  breakfast." 

He  spoke  with  such  frank  heartiness  that  she 
suddenly  forgot  that  she  had  some  reason  for 
diffidence  in  the  presence  of  these  two,  the  man 
towering  above  her,  and  the  child  in  her  embrace. 
All  feeling  of  that  sort  vanished  before  the  welcome 
vision  of  a  day  of  festivity  in  the  country — for 
everything  outside  the  fortifications  was  country  to 
Marie.  She  looked  up  eagerly,  her  face  radiating  an 
infantine  delight  that  almost  immediately  went  into 
cloud  as  she  looked  ruefully  from  Blakemore  to 
Manders. 

"  But  you  see  I  have  the  little  one.  I  told  Mother 
Pugens  she  would  not  have  him  to-day,  and — " 

"Nonsense!  We  don't  want  to  leave  Manders 
with  any  Mother  Pugens.  He  is  going  with  us ;  eh, 
Manders  ? " 

"  Oh !  Monsieur  Bla'mo',  I  love  a  ride  on  the 
river ! " 

"  Come,  then,  away  we  go  \ " 

And  away  they  went,  Manders  between  the  two, 
holding  a  hand  of  each,  frolic  in  their  eyes  and 
pleasure  in  their  hearts,  for  a  holiday,  such  as  this 
promised  to  be,  went  into  their  red-letter  souvenirs. 

They  were  not  the  only  ones  to  whom  the  charms 
of  the  river  appealed,  for  the  boat  on  to  which  they 
pushed  their  way  at  the  Pont  Royal  pier  was 
crowded  with  pleasure-seekers.  They  could  only 
find  standing  room  on  the  forward  deck,  but  it  wa« 

So 


MANDERS 

all  one  to  them  whether  they  stood  or  sat.  To 
be  on  the  gay  river,  the  waters  slipping  under  the 
swift  little  steamer,  the  banks  of  masonry,  the 
busy  wharfs,  historical  memorials,  quaint  scenes,  a 
rich  panoramic  variety  on  either  side  gliding  by 
them,  earth,  water,  sky  and  all  that  moved  in  them 
seeming  to  rejoice  in  the  full  animation  of  the  young 
summer,  was  so  stimulating  to  the  three  friends  that 
physical  discomfort  could  not  so  much  as  threaten 
them.  It  was  an  additional  pleasure  to  be  jostled 
and  crowded  by  eager  fellow-excursionists  who  made 
every  inconvenience  the  occasion  of  a  friendly  com- 
pliment. French  crowds  radiate  amiability,  when 
their  mood  is  sunny,  as  no  other  crowd  can. 

When  the  boat  arrived  at  St  Cloud  it  proved  to 
be  the  destination  of  the  majority  of  the  passengers. 
There  is  no  resort  more  favoured  by  Parisians  than 
the  former  residence  of  the  vanished  kings  and 
emperors  of  the  inconstant  French.  Blakemore, 
Marie  and  Manders  had  a  numerous  company  to 
attend  them  up  the  hill.  It  was  one  of  those  days, 
too,  in  which  St  Cloud  abandons  itself  to  wedding 
breakfasts  or  early  dinners,  the  scene  being  one  of 
white-robed  festivity  about  the  principal  restaurant 
to  which  Blakemore  led  his  guests. 

"  Oh !  but  there  is  a  crowd  ! "  said  Marie,  her  eyes 
sparkling  and  her  cheeks  flushed  by  the  agreeable 
excitement  of  her  easily  stirred  emotions.  "We 
sha'n't  be  able  to  find  a  table ! " 

"We'll  find  something,"  Blakemore  declared  con- 
Si 


MANDERS 

fidently,  and  presently  they  were  seated  comfortably 
at  the  edge  of  the  terrace  under  the  cooling  branches 
of  a  wide-leaved  sycamore. 

There  was  plenty  of  time  to  reflect  upon  what 
they  should  have  for  breakfast.  Service  is  tardy 
at  St  Cloud,  as  it  is  at  most  holiday  resorts,  but 
then  eating  is  the  least  important  incident  of  these 
merry  gatherings;  laughter  and  the  babble  of 
pleasantries  are  the  vital  considerations.  An  occa- 
sional admonitory  "Gargon!"  answered  by  a  pro- 
pitiatory "  Voila ! "  may  indicate  the  proper  bounds 
of  quiet  forbearance,  but  the  course  of  events  is 
in  no  wise  affected  by  these  casual  interjections. 

Blakemore  hardly  looked  to  Marie  for  intellectual 
interest.  What  it  was  that  attracted  him  more  than 
her  physical  beauty  and  magnetism  he  would  have 
found  it  difficult  to  say,  but  that  there  was  more 
than  a  sensuous  charm  he  very  well  understood.  He 
revolved  the  delicate  problem  as  he  rolled  a  cigarette, 
listening  to  her  joyous  prattle,  watching  the  play  of 
gladness  in  her  grey-blue  eyes,  and  the  coming  and 
going  of  smiles  that  matched  so  well  with  the  deep 
dimple  in  her  chin. 

"She  is  so  deliciously  feminine,"  he  thought,  but 
was  unaware  how  fully  the  words  defined  the  artless 
creature  in  pink  and  white  across  the  table  from  him. 
Man  in  general  cares  very  much  less  for  woman  than 
for  femininity ;  Blakemore  was  especially  susceptible 
to  that  type  of  the  feminine  which  politeness  names 
medieval,  and  which  strongmindedness  terms  imbecile, 


MANDERS 

The  more  seriously  man  has  to  battle  with  the  con 
ditions  of  life,  the  more  positively  he  has  to  discipline 
and  operate  his  mental  forces,  the  more  he  is  inclined 
to  seek  recreation  and  refreshment  in  the  society  that 
offers  the  lightest  resistance  to  the  repose  of  intellect- 
ual energy. 

"  What  a  hore  it  would  be,"  Blakemore  continued, 
reasoning  with  himself,  "  to  come  to  St  Cloud  for  an 
afternoon  with  a  woman  who  has  studied  history  in 
order  to  talk  politics,  and  whose  acquaintance  with 
art  and  literature  is  made  an  excuse  for  a  jargon  of 
critical  platitudes." 

Impulsive  gratitude  for  present  freedom  from  such 
tyranny  of  foolish  learning  caused  him  to  give  the 
convenient  ear  of  Manders  a  friendly  twist  as  he 
asked, — 

"  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  have,  my  boy  ? " 

"Cake,"  replied  Manders,  with  the  alertness  of  a 
well-prepared  mind. 

"  Of  course,"  laughed  Blakemore ;  "  but  what  else  ?  " 

"Beer,"  said  Manders,  again  speaking  a  part 
rehearsed.  They  were  served  in  time,  and  gave  a 
leisurely  attention  to  the  things  set  before  them 
in  order,  making  altogether  a  very  cheerful  and 
memorable  breakfast. 

It  rather  surprised  Blakemore  that,  in  spite  of 
himself  and  the  incessant  sounds  and  scenes  of 
frivolity  about  them,  he  and  Marie  drifted  into  a 
discussion  of  a  subject  as  serious  as  the  education  of 
Manders.  His  father  had  taught  the  lad  to  read 

S3 


MANDERS 

and  he  could  scrawl  a  succession  of  curiously  spelled 
words  in  the  pretence  of  letter  writing,  but  Marie 
confessed  that  she  had  given  little  or  no  thought  to 
his  further  advancement.  She  imagined  him  too 
young  for  school,  and  opened  her  eyes  with  rebuking 
incredulity  when  Blakemore  insisted  that  he  could 
read  Latin  when  he  was  at  the  age  of  Manders. 

"Then  why  are  you  not  a  priest?"  she  asked, 
Latin  and  the  Church  being  inseparably  united  as 
cause  and  effect  in  her  philosophy.  But  persuaded 
finally  of  a  maternal  obligation  to  equip  Manders 
with  better  arms  for  the  human  warfare  than  could 
be  got  at  the  domestic  fireside,  a  conclusion  which 
inclined  her  to  tears,  Marie  confessed  that  she  was 
rather  too  poor  of  purse  to  indulge  these  somewhat 
eccentric  notions  of  Blakemore. 

"  Well,  then,  look  here,  Marie,"  said  Blakemore, 
lighting  the  brandy  he  had  poured  over  the  sugar 
lump  in  his  coffee  spoon,  "  let's  make  a  bargain.  I've 
got  plenty  of  money  and  no  one  in  particular  to  spend 
it  on.  I've  been  over  here  studying  art  for  two 
years,  and  old  Monier  says  my  ideas  of  colour  and 
drawing  are  altogether  too  original  for  me  to  hope 
for  any  great  success  in  undraped  figure  work.  He 
says  I'd  better  go  in  for  clothes  and  landscapes  in 
which  bad  lines  can  be  tolerably  well  concealed,  and 
which  admit  of  some  caprices  in  colour.  He  is  a 
fool,  but  I'm  thinking  of  following  his  advice.  Now, 
you  have  made  up  your  mind  not  to  pose  any  more 
in  the  old  way,  and  yet  you  have  got  to  live  in  some 

54 


MANDERS 

way.  What  I  propose  is  this,  you  become  my  model 
for  indoor  and  outdoor  work — dressed,  Manders, 
always  dressed,  you  know — pose  for  me  and  for  no 
one  else,  and  I'll  give  you  double  studio  wages  and 
start  Manders  on  the  road  to  education.  What  do 
you  say  ? "  He  sipped  his  coffee,  looking  at  her  over 
the  rim  of  his  cup. 

Marie  laughed  in  an  unsettled  sort  of  way.  The 
plan  rather  appealed  to  her,  but  she  had  an  idea  that 
it  was  Manders  who  should  decide  the  question.  She 
looked  at  him,  but  that  young  gentleman  was  busy 
getting  the  last  particles  of  custard  from  one  of  the 
baffling  little  pots  invented  to  discourage  the  eating 
of  that  tempting  delicacy.  She  spoke  to  him. 

"  What  do  you  say,  mon  petit  ?  Shall  I  send  you 
totheLyce'e?" 

"  All  right,"  responded  Manders,  without  lifting  his 
eyes ;  "  but  I  suppose  they'll  make  me  fight." 

In  this  way  it  was  agreed,  and  Blakemore  took  it 
upon  himself  to  enter  Manders  at  the  £cole  Alsacienne, 
but  a  short  distance  from  Marie's  home,  on  the  coming 
Monday.  The  three  friends  felt  in  their  several  ways 
that  a  matter  of  moment  had  been  the  outcome  of 
that  dejeuner  under  the  trees,  and  the  older  two 
realised  as  well  that  they  had  made  for  themselves 
a  bond  of  union  closer  and  stronger  than  that  of 
mere  material  interests.  In  Marie's  absurd  little  brain 
Blakemore  was  transfigured  as  a  hero ;  in  Blake- 
more's  contemplation  Marie  was  a  defenceless,  help- 
less mignonne  brought  under  responsible  protection, 

55 


MANDERS 

a  protection  that  seemed  to  him  wholly  philanthropic 
and  dispassionate.  As  for  Manders,  the  prospect  of 
coming  into  self-reliant  contact,  hi  the  mysteries  of 
school  life,  with  strange  boys  filled  his  fancy  with 
alluring  enterprises,  and  he  began  to  think  Monday 
a  long  way  off. 

As  a  finish  to  their  day,  they  took  the  charming 
walk  from  St  Cloud  to  Versailles  through  the  Bois  de 
Fausse  Reposes,  the  sun  having  slipped  below  the 
far  rim  of  the  world  to  give  the  scene  the  glory  of 
the  after-glow  as  they  arrived  tired  but  well  content 
at  the  station  in  time  to  catch  the  express  for  Paris. 
What  a  day  it  had  been!  Youth  is  the  only 
alchemist. 

They  had  a  compartment  to  themselves,  and 
presently,  weary  of  the  gradually  darkening  view 
from  the  window,  Manders,  in  a  proprietary  way, 
settled  down,  and  went  to  sleep  with  his  head 
pillowed  against  the  breast  of  "Monsieur  Bla'mo'." 

"You  see,  we  are  going  to  be  excellent  friends," 
said  Blakemore,  smiling  at  Marie  across  the  way,  and 
patting  Manders  softly  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Monsieur  Walter,  very  good  friends — 
all  three,  is  it  not  ? " 


CHAPTER  IV 

BLAKEMORE  lost  no  time  in  putting  his  agreement 
with  Marie  into  operation.  He  had  a  studio  and 
suite  of  rooms  rez-de-chaussde  in  the  Rue  Danfert 
Rochereau,  the  side  door  of  his  salon  opening  upon 
a  miniature  garden,  the  vine-draped  walls  of  which 
enclosed  with  great  privacy  a  broken  fountain  and 
a  decrepit  tree.  A  splash  of  sunshine  in  the  early 
afternoon  warmed  the  petty  square  into  a  glow  of 
beauty,  and  filled  Blakemore's  mind  with  fanciful 
notions  of  what  might  be  done  with  a  pretty  woman 
well  posed  in  relation  to  the  nymph  of  the  fountain. 
In  this  exclusive  space  he  might  experiment  in 
colours  to  his  heart's  content  unabashed  and  unscrupu- 
lous. Failure  should  be  his  teacher,  and  what  success 
he  might  chance  upon  would  have  a  double  sweetness. 
Out  of  the  art  talk  he  had  heard  in  the  two  years 
of  his  student's  life  one  bit  of  advice  from  a  great 
painter  had  been  chosen  as  his  oracular  guide, 
"Never  be  afraid  of  spoiling  your  canvas.  A 
hundred  failures  weigh  nothing  against  one  success." 
He  spoiled  canvas  profitably — if  not  to  himself, 
certainly  to  M.  Foinet,  the  benevolent  dealer  in  the 
Rue  Notre  Dame  des  Champs. 

S7 


MANDERS 

"  I  am  not  coining  in  the  afternoons  for  a  while," 
he  had  said  to  M.  Monier  the  day  after  the  excursion 
to  St  Cloud,  which  declaration  in  some  occult  way 
amused  M.  Monier. 

"  Eh,  well !     Treat  her  well,"  said  the  old  painter. 

"  It  isn't  that  at  all,"  answered  Blakemore,  rather 
irritated. 

"Of  course  not,  of  course  not,"  chuckled  M. 
Monier.  "It  never  is." 

Misjudged,  as  the  disinterested  always  are,  Blake- 
more  had  the  sense  to  waste  no  words  in  self -vindica- 
tion. He  carried  himself  off  with  all  the  dignity  of 
his  proportioned  six  feet,  and  some  hours  later  began 
transferring  to  canvas  his  impressions  of  a  young 
woman  in  a  yellow  gown  of  the  Directoire  style. 
Very  contenting  work  he  found  it,  and  very  agree- 
able was  the  half -hour  of  rest,  when  he  and  Marie 
sat  in  the  somewhat  luxuriously  furnished  salon, 
sipping  wine  from  their  glasses  and  nibbling  petite 
gdteaux. 

The  day  in  the  country  had  brought  about  wonders 
of  understanding  between  them.  Marie  thought  that 
she  had  never  before  known  anyone  quite  so  well  as 
she  seemed  to  know  this  considerate  yet  familiarly 
intimate  young  American,  who  had  become  the 
patron  of  Manders  and  her  own  benefactor.  Under 
the  influence  of  emotions  she  might  not  have  been 
able  to  define,  she  revealed  phases  of  character  and 
qualities  of  mind  which  gave  Blakemore  a  better 
opinion  of  her  intelligence,  and  a  clearer  insight  into 

58 


MANDERS 

her  nature  than  before.  He  perceived  ft  womanliness  at 
the  back  of  ner  ingenuousness  that  might,  under  stress 
of  the  right  circumstances,  develop  into  a  force,  equal 
on  the  one  hand  to  an  heroic  martyrdom,  or  on  the 
other,  capable  of  tragic  abandonment.  He  caught 
himself  following  a  train  of  possibilities  in  either  of 
these  opposed  directions,  curiously  balancing  chances, 
noting  the  changes  taking  place  in  the  hypothetical 
Marie,  pursuing  step  by  step  a  succession  of  im- 
perative incidents  to  the  inevitable  denouement. 
He  became  so  interested  that  for  the  space  of  ten 
minutes  he  said  nothing  to  Marie,  his  eyes  fixed 
dreamily  upon  her  face  as  if  he  read  in  its  sweetly 
placid  expression  the  index  of  his  fancies.  A  casual 
remark  of  hers  had  seemed  to  him  the  key  to  her  as 
yet  unlocked  character.  A  showy  demi-Tnondaine,  no 
older  than  Marie,  a  table  or  two  beyond  them  on  the 
terrace  at  St  Cloud,  had  attracted  their  attention, 
and  given  rise  to  some  worldly  conversation  between 
them. 

"  I  should  not  want  to  be  bad,"  Marie  had  said, 
"  but  has  a  woman  any  choice,  Monsieur  Walter  ?  It 
depends  on  so  many  things  beyond  her  control 
whether  a  woman  shall  be  good  or  bad.  You  see,  the 
world  has  been  made  by  men  for  men.  We  women," 
she  made  a  pretty  flourish  with  her  hand  as  she 
laughingly  looked  up  into  the  sweep  of  branches  over 
her  head,  "  we  women  are  like  the  leaves  on  the 
tree — tell  me,  which  one,  when  the  wind  blows,  will 
fall  and  which  one  will  cling  to  the  stem  ?  * 

59 


MANDERS 

This  was  an  astonishingly  sage  observation  to  come 
from  the  red  lips  of  blue-eyed,  dimpled-chinned 
Marie,  and  Blakemore  was  without  a  ready  answer 
to  it.  He  had  laughed  at  her  and  said, — 

"  It  is  the  nature  of  leaves  to  tumble,  you  know. 
They  cannot  argue  the  point,  and  they  don't  know 
the  difference  between  the  tree-top  and  the  mire. 
You  haven't  offered  a  very  good  illustration.  Try 
again."  He  lightly  struck  a  leaf  from  the  branch 
with  his  stick  as  he  spoke. 

"Eh,  well,  Monsieur  Walter,  it  is  all  the  same  to 
you  men.  You  knock  the  leaves  from  the  trees,  and 
you  trample  on  them  when  they  have  fallen.  But 
it  doesn't  matter.  Leaf  or  woman,  they  are  in  the 
world  for  man's  pleasure."  She  smiled,  but  there 
was  just  a  shadow  of  seriousness  in  her  eyes  as  she 
looked  at  him,  seeming  to  invite  a  negative  response. 

His  reply  was  banal  enough. 

"Yes,  good  women  are  here  for  man's  pleasure, 
Marie ;  and  it  is  only  with  good  women  that  we  find 
real  pleasure.  Only  a  few  of  us,  after  all,  are  asses 
enough  not  to  know  this." 

"  Do  you  know  some  of  the  good  women,  Monsieur 
Walter?" 

He  looked  at  her  intently  a  moment  before  answer- 
ing. The  question  was  sincere.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking the  wistful,  straightforward  eyes. 

"  Yes,  a  good  many,  Marie." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  a  really  good  woman." 

"  You  are  one  yourself,  Marie." 

69 


MANDERS 

He  said  this  with  much  earnestness.  She  looked 
at  him  in  eager  thankfulness. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Monsieur  Walter,"  she  exclaimed, 
and  then  turned  with  such  ill-concealed  pride  to  give 
the  curls  of  Handera  a  caressing  stroke  that  Blake- 
more  thought  nothing  could  be  more  touchingly  in- 
fantine. Then  it  was  she  made  the  remark  which 
Blakemore  received  as  the  key  to  her  perplexing 
personality. 

"I  don't  dare  believe  you,  Monsieur  Walter.  It 
appears  to  me  that  I  have  always  been  asleep  inside, 
and  that  if  I  should  ever  wake  up  it  would  terrify 
me.  And  sometimes  it  seems  as  if  I  were  just  going 
to  wake  up,  and  my  heart  stops  beating.  You  know, 
I  think  there  are  two  or  three  Maries  besides  myself  ? 
Am  I  not  a  fool,  Monsieur  Blakemore  ? " 

"  Two  or  three  Maries  besides  herself ! "  What  sort 
of  creatures  were  they  ? 

It  was  the  train  of  events  shaping  the  lives  of 
these  several  Maries  out  of  the  possibilities  of  the 
innocent  in  the  yellow  gown  that  bore  Blakemore 
so  far  into  unconsciousness  of  the  Marie  before  him. 

"Have  you  forgotten  me?"  asked  the  embodied 
Marie  finally,  knocking  the  ash  from  his  cigarette 
playfully  with  her  fan.  "Isn't  it  time  we  got  to 
work  ?  You  will  lose  the  sun." 

"  Yes,  come.  You  see  how  easily  I  get  lazy  with 
half  a  chance.  I  daresay  you  will  have  to  brace  me 
up  a  lot.  You  are  a  straightaway  sort  of  chap, 
aren't  you  ?  You  will  keep  me  at  it,  eh  ? " 

II 


MANDERS 

She,  laughing,  looked  up  at  him  as  he  came  beside 
her.  "Yes,  if  you  do  not  work  very,  very  hard,  I 
shall  stop  posing." 

"  And  serve  me  right,  too."  He  kissed  her  cheek, 
and  they  returned  into  the  garden,  to  be  sober- 
minded. 

Marie's  sober-mindedness  had  a  vermilion  tone  that 
betrayed  itself  in  her  cheeks.  Blakemore's  frank  kiss, 
though  bestowed  in  a  careless,  incidental  manner,  as 
unemotionally  as  he  might  have  filliped  a  particle  of 
ash  from  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  had  been  by  no  means 
as  lightly  and  as  indifferently  received.  The  tele- 
grapher may  unconsciously  touch  his  finger  to  the 
key  of  his  instrument,  but  he  sets  in  vibration  a 
current  of  warm  vitality  that  runs  on  to  the  end 
of  time.  Marie  was  one  of  those  sensitive  creatures 
to  whom  a  caress  is  never  without  significance,  with 
whom  every  familiarity  is  put  under  special  inter- 
pretation, no  allowance  being  made  for  the  casual 
impulses  by  which  so  considerable  a  part  of  average 
conduct  is  ruled.  In  the  estimation  of  such  women, 
a  kiss  is  either  an  injury  or  a  beneficence,  something 
that  in  either  case  readjusts  former  relations — a  new 
element  entering  into  the  problem  of  values. 

Marie  rather  mused  upon  than  reasoned  from  the 
incident,  but  her  musings  were  at  once  satisfactory 
to  herself,  and  not  uncomplimentary  to  Blakemore. 

"  He  is  not  like  the  rest.  We  are  going  to  be  very 
happy,  Manders  and  Walter  and  L" 

There  was  no  more  a  "  Monsieur  "  Walter  for  her ; 
62 


MANDERS 

that  slight  barrier  of  frivolous  reserve  had  been 
whiffed  away  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  She  did 
not  send  her  thoughts  very  far  into  the  future.  It 
was  not  her  way.  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the 
pleasure  thereof,  was  her  principle  of  being.  What 
might  come  was  a  thought  much  too  vain.  "If  we 
cannot  tell  what  will  happen  to-morrow,  why  vex 
our  heads  about  it  ? "  she  had  a  demure  way  of  ask- 
ing, and  her  life  with  the  morally  flaccid  father  of 
Manders  had  not  tended  to  develop  her  small  sense 
of  personal  responsibility.  But  as  Blakemore  always 
had  an  eye  to  the  future,  expending  his  energies 
upon  plans  for  days  that  were  to  follow  to-morrow, 
Marie  could  but  be  influenced  to  some  extent  by  the 
work  of  which  she  was  an  inactive  but  important 
part,  and  in  the  fragmentary  visions  that  carried 
Blakemore  to  success,  in  her  fancy  she  caught 
glimpses  of  herself  revolving  in  the  orbit  of  his 
happiness.  Being  useful,  and  therefore  helpful,  to 
this  young  man  was  a  present  joy  to  her.  It  did 
not  occur  to  her  to  consider  a  possible  time  when 
she  would  no  longer  be  necessary  to  him. 

In  the  course  of  the  third  sitting,  the  afternoon  of 
the  day  in  which  Manders  valiantly  entered  into  his 
campaign  against  primary  education,  old  Fanchette, 
the  shrivelled  bonne  in  charge  of  Blakemore's 
menage,  came  into  the  garden  babbling  apologies 
and  holding  a  note  in  her  hand. 

If  Monsieur  pleased,  there  was  a  servant  at  the 
door  Baiting  to  take  Monsieur's  answer. 

fi 


MANDERS 

The  note  came  from  an  address  in  the  Avenue 
Marceau,  and  Blakemore,  who  did  not  at  once 
recognise  the  handwriting,  uttered  an  exclamation 
of  surprise  as  he  glanced  at  the  signature.  Marie 
watched  him  curiously  as  he  read  it,  and  she 
imagined  he  had  rather  a  kindly  feeling  for  the 
writer,  who  she  had  no  doubt  was  a  woman,  one 
of  those  good  women,  perhaps  the  good  woman. 

"  A  good  joke  on  you,  Marie !  I'll  laugh  at  you  over 
it  when  I  come  back.  I  must  go  and  write  an  answer." 

He  tossed  the  letter  on  to  the  stool  and  ran 
into  the  house,  followed  by  old  Fanchette,  who 
cackled  away  cheerfully,  notwithstanding  no  atten- 
tion was  given  to  what  she  said. 

Marie,  not  well  schooled  in  mere  fashionable  scruples, 
and  feeling  perfectly  free  to  partake  of  any  merri- 
ment of  which  she  was  the  object,  innocently  took  up 
the  note  and  spread  it  open.  As  her  acquaintance  with 
written  English  was  distinctly  formal,  she  read  with 
some  difficulty  the  angular  script  that  was  then 
much  affected  by  young  ladies  who  studied  modes 
in  handwriting  as  they  followed  fashions  in  dress. 

"  DEAR  MR  BLAKEMORE, — What  a  time  I  have  had 
finding  out  where  you  live  !  And  how  astonished  you 
v?  ill  be  that  I  can  afford  to  spare  a  moment  from  my 
very  first  week  in  Paris  to  any  young  gentleman  who 
makes  himself  difficult  to  find. 

"  We  arrived,  mamma  and  I,  just  a  week  ago.  Our 
second  'outing'  was  at  St  Cloud  the  day  you  were 

64 


MANUERS 

there.  You  may  resent  our  not  making  ourselves 
known  to  you,  but  the  fact  is  we  were  just  the  least 
tiny  bit  afraid  that  the  young  woman  with  you  (it 
was  she  who  drew  my  attention  to  you)  was  not 
too  respectable,  and  mamma  has  the  bad  taste  to 
be  particular  about  such  things.  I  should  not  have 
minded  it  myself.  Fancy  having  to  be  as  circum- 
spect in  Paris  as  one  is  at  home !  It  is  like  burning 
candles  by  daylight.  If  I  had  imagined  what  a  needle- 
in-the-haystack  hunt  I  was  to  have  for  you,  I  should 
have  defied  mamma  and  taken  my  chances  on  the 
aforesaid  young  woman. 

"  However,  our  amiable  consul  happened  to  know 
enough  about  you  to  give  me  your  address — though 
I  haven't  the  remotest  idea  where  this  ridiculously 
hyphenated  street  is — and  I  proceed  to  lay  hands 
on  you.  Are  you  free  for  Tuesday  afternoon  ?  If  so, 
will  you  come  over  at  three  o'clock  and  go  with  us 
for  a  drive  ?  And  we  might  go  to  one  of  those 
wicked  restaurants  I've  heard  so  much  about  for 
something  to  eat  afterward.  (N.B. — I  hope  you  will 
have  the  grace  not  to  say  that  /  suggested  anything 
so  indecorous!) 

"  Do  come !  I  have  quantities  of  Washington  and 
Baltimore  gossip  for  you,  besides  a  scrap  or  two 
picked  up  in  New  York. 

"Mamma  sends  her  compliments — or  she  would 
if  she  knew  I  were  writing  to  you.  —  Sincerely 
youre. 

"FLORENCE  STOREY. 
* 


MANDERS 

•  P.S. — There  may  be  *-  young  Englishman  in  our 
party,  a  Mr  Mendenhall,  with  whom  we  got  ac- 
quainted on  the  boat.  Mamma  thinks  him  stunning. 
I  don't.  He  is  so  intensely  respectable  that  he  is 
positively  dull." 

Marie  read  this  note  with  some  inquietude,  and 
was  going  through  it  a  second  time  when  Blakemore 
reappeared.  She  saw  in  this  Miss  Storey  an  inter- 
ruption to  the  serious  work  to  which  Blakemore  had 
set  himself,  and  she  hoped  he  would  decline  an 
invitation  so  prophetic  of  disaster.  "  One  can  go  to 
the  devil  very  easily  in  Paris,"  she  had  heard  Manders 
pere  say  more  than  once,  "wine  and  women  are  so 
cheap." 

This  easy  slipping  down  the  smooth  Avernian 
way  was,  it  seemed  to  her  limited  judgment,  made 
doubly  facile  by  drives  in  the  Bois,  followed  by 
something  to  eat  and  drink  in  those  gay  restaurants 
where  laughter  holds  carnival  through  the  night. 
It  was  not  at  all  the  moral  side  of  the  problem 
with  which  she  concerned  herself.  Marie's  ethical 
code  was  not  a  digest  of  social  ordinances.  The 
odourless  flower  of  Puritanism  is  not  native  to  the 
Latin  Quarter.  Her  solicitude  in  Blakemore's  behalf 
had  respect  entirely  of  material  conditions.  So  far 
as  she  had  been  able  to  observe,  wine,  women  and 
song  were  the  seductive  commissionaires  of  Failure, 
allies  of  the  river  into  which  they  led  the  tired 
revellers  whose  purses  they  had  emptied. 

66 


MANDERS 

"  This  isn't  one  of  the  good  women,"  she  concluded, 
after  reading  the  letter,  taking  the  French  view  of 
feminine  unreserve.  Therefore,  when  Blakemore 
came  to  interrupt  her  she  looked  up  with  so  much 
that  was  apprehensive  in  her  smile  that  he  laughed 
at  her  question, — 

"You  will  not  go,  Walter?" 

"Oh!  but  I  must  go,  Marie.  These  are  old 
friends,  family  friends,  you  know,  friends  of  my 
mother's." 

She  brightened  a  little. 

"  Then  this  Miss  Storey  is  not — "  she  hesitated. 

"Not  what?" 

"  Is  she  very  nice  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes;  I  think  people  find  her  tolerably 
nice." 

"  And— and— good  ? " 

"  Decidedly." 

She  looked  down  at  the  letter,  read  a  sentence 
over,  and  then  asked  dubiously, — 

" '  Wicked '  is  '  me'chant,'  is  it  not  ?  " 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  amused. 

She  handed  the  letter  to  him  with  her  finger  on 
the  word.  "Do  'good'  American  girls  write  like 
that  to  young  men  ? "  she  asked  gravely. 

He  frowned  on  finding  that  she  had  read  the 
letter,  but,  at  once  understanding  and  excusing  her, 
he  answered,  laughingly, — 

"  My  dear  Marie,  you  can  never  understand  us, 
can  you  ?  But  you  see  Miss  Storey  did  not  under- 

69 


MANDERS 

stand  you  either.  She  suspected  that  you  were  not 
'too  respectable'  only  because  you  are  French  and 
were  out  with  a  young  fellow  for  a  holiday.  But 
she  would  be  very  greatly  shocked  if  she  could 
imagine  that  anybody  suspects  her.  Miss  Storey 
is  what  you  call  gai,  but  thoroughly  comme  il  faut. 
Do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,  I  understand.  Then  I  am  not  to  come 
to-morrow  ? " 

"Why  not?  Come  and  bring  Manders  with  you. 
There  are  books  and  pictures  and  the  piano  to 
amuse  you,  and  Manders  can  play  here  in  the  garden. 
You  can  have  dinner  here.  I'll  tell  Fanchette.  You 
can  be  mistress  of  the  house,  and  be  very  jolly  about 
it.  And  you  might  make  Fanchette  set  things  round 
a  little.  She  is  not  the  tidiest  of  housekeepers.  And 
look  here,  if  you  want  to  be  awfully  nice  you  can 
sew  some  buttons  on  this  jacket." 

"  Eh,  well  1    But  have  you  any  buttons  ? " 

"No,  you'll  have  to  buy  some.  But  take  your 
position.  You've  got  to  give  me  an  extra  half -hour 
or  so.  I  can't  have  to-morrow  afternoon  a  dead  loss, 
you  know." 

"I  am  going  to  get  you  very  large  buttons,"  she 
said,  smiling  and  adjusting  her  gown  into  the  right 
folds,  "so  large  that  they  won't  go  through  the 
buttonholes." 

"So  I  won't  wear  them  off,  eh?" 

"Yes;  you  look  better  with  your  jacket  open, 
also.  You  have  a  very  good — what  do  you  say  ? " 

II 


MANDERS 

illustrating  her  meaning  with  an  upward  sweep  of 
her  hand. 

"Chest?" 

"  Yes ;  I  have  noticed  it." 

Admiration  of  strength  bespeaks  the  normal  woman 


CHAPTER   V 

MRS  STOREY,  as  the  wife  of  a  cotton  broker  who 
operated  successfully  in  New  Orleans,  thought  it 
her  privilege  to  take  advantage  of  fortune  without 
paying  too  much  deference  to  economy.  If  this 
amiable  disposition  made  a  bachelor  life  for  Mr 
Storey,  and  relieved  him  of  the  necessity  of  worry- 
ing over  a  steadily  increasing  bank  account,  it  secured 
to  Mrs  Storey  and  her  daughter  innumerable  benefits 
of  travel,  and  the  blessings  of  a  frequent  change  of 
society.  Now  and  then  by  letter  Mr  Storey  would 
offer  an  apologetic  remonstrance  against  what  he 
feared  bore  some  resemblance  to  a  "ruinous  ex- 
travagance," but  a  marked  paragraph  in  a  foreign 
paper  relative  to  the  wife  and  daughter  of  the 
"American  Cotton  King"  abashed  him  into  a 
generous  silence  and  a  renewed  energy  of  specula- 
tion. The  more  harried  the  commercial  slave,  the 
deeper  is  his  pride  in  the  social  triumphs  of  his 
feminine  representatives.  He  will  toil  along  the 
flinty  road  to  bankruptcy  with  the  ineffable  calm 
of  relished  martyrdom  if  he  may  be  cheered  by 
a  vision  of  his  "women  folks"  enviably  radiant 
in  purple  and  fine  linen.  Mrs  Storey  was  not  an 

70 


MANDERS 

entirely  selfish  woman,  and  she  really  found  pleasure 
in  giving  her  laboriously  money-grubbing  husband 
the  comfort  of  knowing  that  the  drafts  he  sent  over 
with  exact  regularity  were  ungrudgingly  used  to  the 
establishment  of  his  European  credit.  "One  must 
have  an  eye  to  appearances"  was  her  social  maxim 
and  moral  palladium.  Facts  could  be  left  to  take 
care  of  themselves.  It  is  only  just  to  say  that  Mrs 
Storey  was  fully  of  the  opinion  that  facts  could  and 
would  take  care  of  themselves  nicely  and  genteelly  in 
her  case.  Once,  when  Mr  Storey,  finding  the  balance 
in  the  wrong  column  of  the  year's  account,  ventured 
to  ask  what  they  would  do  if  there  should  come  a 
crash,  the  estimable  and  sure-minded  Mrs  Storey 
tapped  his  knuckles  with  her  shapely  fingers,  and 
said,  with  definite  rebuke, — 

"  My  dear  Henry,  you  never  have  crashed  1  Why 
in  the  world  are  you  at  so  much  pains  to  crash  in 
imagination?  If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  as 
I  grant  you  things  do  sometimes  happen  that 
way,  you  will  be  no  worse  off  than  you  were  when 
I  married  you  twenty-six  years  ago.  We  could  go 
back  to  the  little  Mississippi  plantation,  and  live  as 
we  used  to  live  before  you  took  it  into  your  head 
to  get  rich." 

"  But  Florence — "  Mr  Storey  began,  with  an  argu- 
mentative inflection. 

"Florence  is  my  affair,"  interrupted  Mrs  Storey, 
with  good-natured  decision.  "My  sole  object  in 
life  is  to  do  you  credit  as  a  wife  and  to  provide 

n 


MANDERS 

Florence  with  a  husband  who  will  do  you  credit 
as  a  son-in-law.  What  more  can  a  reasonable  man 
ask  of  his  family?" 

"Well,  why  don't  you  encourage  Walter  Blake- 
more  ?  He  is  the  sort  of  man  I'd  like  to  see 
Florrie  marry.  He  is  just  like  his  father  as  I 
knew  him  at  college,  and  he  promises  to  be  as 
fine  a  man  as  his  father  is  now.  I  believe  they 
like  each  other,  and  if  you  would  just  let  Florrie 
alone—" 

"  Really,  Henry,"  Mrs  Storey  interposed,  with  that 
smile  of  mixed  indulgence  and  reproof  with  which 
superior  minds  correct  our  follies,  "I  can't  let  you 
run  on  in  that  absurd  way.  Your  romantic  notion 
of  wanting  to  marry  your  daughter  to  the  son  of 
an  old  schoolmate  and  army  comrade  is  an  eight- 
teenth  century  sentiment  not  at  all  in  accord  with 
the  practical  intelligence  of  our  times.  New  social 
conditions  are  making  in  this  country,  and  it  is 
necessary  that  one  be  in  the  movement  if  one  does 
not  want  to  be  overwhelmed  by  it.  I  have  ambitions 
for  Florence.  I  am  investing  your  fortune  in  a 
social  speculation.  Now,  don't  meddle.  I  understand 
Florence  perfectly.  You  have  $500,000  well  invested 
in  her  name  which  she  is  to  have  as  a  wedding 
portion — " 

"A?  we  don't  go  to  pot  before." 

"Don't  interrupt.  With  that  amount  of  money 
and  her  appearance — besides,  she  isn't  a  fool — I 
expect  to  do  very  much  better  than  surrender  to 

7« 


MANDERS 

Walter  Blakemore,  excellent  young  man  that  he  is. 
There  is  no  place  in  the  world  where  a  title  counts 
for  as  much  as  it  does  in  the  United  States — and  a 
pretty  girl  with  $500,000  can  pick  up  a  very  respect- 
able title  in  the  money  markets  of  Europe." 

"  Pooh !  I  don't  believe  Florrie  cares  a  damn  for  a 
title,"  said  Mr  Storey,  bluntly. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  so  early  introduced  man's 
substitute  for  argument,  my  dear.  I  can  conclude 
that  the  subject  is  settled  between  us,  and  we  need 
say  no  more  about  it.  You  concede  a  point  with 
charming  candour.  Shall  we  get  ready  for  dinner  ?  " 

The  characters  of  the  parents  having  been  thus 
generalised,  there  need  be  no  attempt  to  analyse  the 
disposition  of  the  daughter,  who,  taking  something 
from  the  natures  of  the  two,  grew  to  womanhood 
under  the  exclusively  maternal  direction. 

There  had  not  been  a  great  deal  to  justify  Mr 
Storey  in  his  idea  of  bestowing  Florence  upon  Walter 
Blakemore.  An  intimate  childhood,  modified  by 
several  years  of  separation  on  the  removal  of  the 
Storeys  from  Virginia  to  Mississippi,  a  subsequent 
renewal  of  friendship  when  Blakemore  came  out  of 
college  and  profited  socially  by  his  father's  judicial 
position  in  Washington,  Florence  being  then  little 
more  than  sixteen  and  Blakemore  not  yet  twenty- 
two,  some  further  increase  of  interest  by  brief  seasons 
in  Baltimore,  at  the  seashore  and  in  New  York,  and 
then  Blakemore's  running  away  to  Paris  with  a 
sudden  resolve  to  fashion  himself  into  an  artist— 

73 


MANDERS 

these  were  the  too  unsubstantial  foundations  upon 
which  Mr  Storey  builded  his  unauthorised  romance 
of  paternal  providence. 

It  had  been  three  years  since  their  last  meeting,  and 
Blakemore  .wondered  if  the  change  of  address  from 
"Dear  Walter"  to  the  "Dear  Mr  Blakemore"  of  the 
note  in  his  pocket  argued  a  corresponding  change  in 
the  sentiments  of  Florence,  and  meant  to  inform  him 
that  their  friendship  was  to  be  conducted  upon  a 
more  strictly  formal  basis.  As  the  fiacre  began  the 
ascent  of  the  Avenue  Marceau  at  what  seemed  to  him 
an  unwonted  speed,  his  thoughts,  which  had  been 
composed  enough  until  then,  got  into  an  abominable 
panic.  He  could  not  recall  a  like  experience  of 
humiliating  fear.  Coming  opposite  to  the  fatal 
number,  he  had  a  strong  inclination  to  tell  the  cabman 
to  drive  on,  and  as  he  climbed  the  heavily  carpeted 
stairs  towards  the  second  floor,  they  seemed  to  give 
way  beneath  his  feet.  The  expostulatory  phrases  he 
addressed  to  himself  were  not  sufficiently  reassuring, 
and  he  hesitated  some  moments  in  moist  anxiety 
before  he  mustered  courage  to  pull  the  bell-rope. 
Five  minutes  afterwards  be  marvelled  what  it  was 
had  made  him  such  a  poltroon. 

Florence  came  alone  into  the  salon  to  welcome  him, 
calling  out  to  him  as  she  entered  a  greeting  of  such 
frank  pleasure  that  he  hardly  noticed  how  much 
addition  of  personal  distinction  the  last  three  matur- 
ing years  had  given  her,  and  only  recognised  the 
friend  to  whom  he  had  said  good-bye  on  the  sands 

74 


MANDERS 

at  Long  Branch  when  the  stars  were  shining.  Old 
acquaintances  who,  after  some  years  of  separation, 
meet  in  Paris  for  the  first  time  are  not  ceremonious. 
The  atmosphere  of  that  city  is  a  different  chemical 
combination  altogether  from  that  of  any  other,  and  it 
acts  upon  foreign  systems  so  instantly  and  so  radically 
that  victims  of  it  are  unconscious  of  the  alterations 
they  undergo.  Blakemore,  who  had  been  long  enough 
resident  in  the  vivid  capital  to  have  recovered  some- 
thing of  the  normal  balance  that  returns  when  reason 
has  had  time  to  strip  the  life  of  its  artificial  gilding, 
recognised  the  familiar  symptoms  in  the  feverish 
vivacity  of  Miss  Storey's  conversation.  He  was  not 
at  all  surprised  nor  much  shocked  when,  in  answer 
to  his  conventional  question  as  to  how  she  liked 
Paris,  she  said,  with  a  comical  impulsiveness  that 
took  off  the  edge  of  her  words, — 

"It  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  were  full  of  the 
devil!" 

"You  will  get  over  that,"  he  said,  laughingly. 

"  Oh !  I  should  hope  so.  But  I  am  afraid  it  is 
going  to  be  so  slow  a  process  that  I'll  be  burned  to 
a  cinder  before  the  season  is  over.  Why,  when  we 
came  down  the  Champs  Elysee  yesterday,  swinging 
along  through  that  brilliant  crowd,  I  had  a  mad  wish 
to  tumble  the  coachman  off  the  box  and  take  the 
reins  myself.  I'd  give  anything  to  drive  full  head 
down  that  splendid  avenue  just  for  the  sensation 
of  it.  But  as  that  is  out  of  the  question — mother 
is  becoming  villainously  prudish — you've  got  to 


MANDERS 

find  me  a  vent  for  my  excited  state  of  mind,  which 
is  dangerously  high  pressure." 

There  was  not  much  that  was  serious  in  the 
mischievous  eyes  into  which  Blakemore  looked,  but 
he  thought  there  was  the  shadow  of  more  than  banter 
in  her  words.  "Why  the  deuce  will  girls  talk  in 
this  way?"  was  his  mental  comment,  but  he  said 
aloud  in  her  own  vein, — 

"Well,  what  would  you  like  to  do?" 

"Something  wicked — something  desperately  wicked! 
What  is  there  one  can  do  ?  Something  to  remember 
and  blush  about  when  one  is  old  and  axiomatic  ? " 

"  You  shouldn't  expect  that  sort  of  thing  in  Paris. 
There  is  nothing  wicked  here.  Everything  is  con- 
ventional, even  suicide.  You  cannot  do  anything 
to  shock  the  Parisians." 

"  But,  you  stupid  fellow,  it  is  not  the  Parisians  I 
wish  to  shock  ;  it  is  myself ! " 

"  Very  well ;  I'll  think  of  something." 

Mrs  Storey  came  in,  several  degrees  gayer  in  dress 
than  Florence,  and  appearing  not  so  many  years 
older.  The  lady  had  so  far  improved  upon  nature 
in  the  matter  of  complexion  as  to  have  secured  a 
youthful  bloom  and  smoothness  of  skin  which 
seemed  the  fresher  for  the  contrast  of  her  grey- 
threaded  black  hair.  Always  faultlessly  dressed, 
and  thoroughly  skilled  in  the  art  of  wearing 
garments  as  if  they  were  integral  parts  of  the 
body,  Mrs  Storey  was  altogether  an  agreeable  object 
upon  which  to  rest  the  eye. 

16 


MANDERS 

She  was  very  affable  to  Blakemore,  but  with  the 
patronising  affability  which  holds  one  stationary 
at  the  arm's  length  of  friendship,  tacitly  forbid- 
ding a  closer  intimacy.  Had  she  possessed  force 
of  character  equal  to  her  reserve  of  manner,  Mrs 
Storey  would  have  been  a  remarkable  woman. 
Unfortunately  for  Florence,  Mrs  Storey  was  pre- 
cisely the  sort  of  woman  to  whom  the  responsibility 
of  rearing  &  daughter  should  never  be  confided. 
Blakemore,  divining  without  analysing  her  moral 
and  mental  deficiencies,  saw  in  her  one  of  those 
chaperons  who  shield  rather  than  restrain  the 
impulsive  tendencies  of  a  too  ardent  protigfo.  It 
was  very  evident  that  Florence  was  quite  accustomed 
to  having  her  own  way,  notwithstanding  the  habit 
of  appealing  to  her  mother  for  approval  of  an 
opinion  or  assent  to  a  plan.  The  outward  flourish 
of  deference  was  mere  diplomacy  by  which  the 
mother  was  deceived  into  the  belief  that  her 
judgment  governed  the  conduct  of  the  daughter. 
It  was  an  amusing  little  comedy,  because  both  the 
players  in  it  were  so  earnest  in  their  respective  rdlea, 
and  Blakemore  was  in  doubt  whether  Florence 
was  not  in  some  measure  self-deceived  by  the  filial 
candour  she  affected  with  such  address. 

"  We  must  apologise  to  you,"  Mrs  Storey  said,  "  for 
the  absence  of  Mr  Mendenhall,  who  expected  to  be 
of  our  party.  But,"  turning  to  Florence,  "didn't 
you  arrange  that  he  should  join  us  somewhere  or 
other?" 

17 


MANDERS 

"It  was  your  own  arrangement,  mamma.  We 
were  to  take  him  up  at  the  Madrid  at  five  o'clock. 
Don't  you  think  it  fascinating  at  the  Madrid  ? "  she 
asked  of  Blakemore  with  an  eager  smile. 

"  One  sees  '  all  Paris '  there,  surely — the  good  and 
the  bad,  democratically  mixed,"  he  assented,  glanc- 
ing inquisitively  at  Mrs  Storey. 

"  That  is  the  charm  of  it,"  said  Florence.  "  There 
is  such  an  exhilarating  sense  of  impropriety  in  hob- 
nobbing with  '  all  Paris,'  as  you  call  it.  To  be  in  it 
without  exactly  being  of  it — " 

"  My  dear  Florence ! "  expostulated  Mrs  Storey, 
"don't  give  Mr  Blakemore  the  impression  that  we 
are  frequenters  or  a  place  we  have  visited  but  once." 

"Oh,  I  assure  you,  Mrs  Storey,  to  frequent  the 
Madrid  is  quite  a  matter  of  course  with  the  gay 
world  of  Paris.  Not  to  be  seen  there  of  an  after- 
noon is  to  lose  a  day  out  of  the  calendar  of  pleasure." 

"  Is  that  your  practice  ? "  Florence  asked,  with  a 
peculiarly  expressive  glance  sideways  at  him. 

"  No.  Unluckily  I  have  got  out  of  the  butterfly 
and  gone  back  into  the  grub  state.  I'm  a  student, 
you  know." 

"  And  do  you  stick  at  it  ? " 

"  Yes ;  hard  at  it." 

"  How  are  you  coming  on  ? "  asked  Mrs  Storey,  as 
if  persuaded  of  her  qualification  to  pass  judgment 
on  artistic  progress. 

"  Very  badly,  I'm  afraid.  Old  Monier  says  my  feet 
look  like  gigote." 


MANDERS 

"Good  heaven!  what  have  your  feet  to  do  with 
painting  ? "  Mrs  Storey  exclaimed,  at  the  same  time 
taking  in  the  trim  set  of  Blakemore's  patent  leather 
boots. 

Florence  laughed  irreverently,  making  a  gesture 
of  despair. 

"  Mamma !  How  innocent  you  are !  My  mother  is 
a  literalist,  Walter,  so  you  must  be  very  careful  how 
you  talk  about  spades." 

This  inadvertent  use  of  his  first  name  was  grati- 
fying to  Blakemore,  who  thought  it  as  cordial  as 
it  was  spontaneous,  a  chance  note  from  other  days 
that  set  a  whole  harmony  in  vibration.  He  saw, 
too,  that  she  was  aware  of  the  slip,  and  he  knew 
that  the  fictitious  formality  she  had  introduced 
between  them  was  dismissed  from  that  moment. 
Some  minutes  later  Florence  proved  the  justness  of 
his  conclusion  by  asking  of  her  mother  in  a  tone  of 
surprise,  as  if  but  then  noting  the  fact, — 

"  But  why  do  you  address  him  as  '  Mr  Blakemore '  ? 
That  gives  us  no  claim  on  him  whatever;  whereas 
I  propose  to  make  very  free  use  of  him  as  long  as  we 
stop  in  Paris.  May  I  not,  Walter  ? " 

Mrs  Storey  was  properly  vexed.  When  Florence 
had  announced  her  intention  of  writing  Blakemore 
a  note  of  summons,  there  had  been  a  careful  discus- 
sion of  the  relations  Mrs  Storey  would  permit.  A 
polite  friendliness  should  instruct  the  young  gentle- 
man how  great  are  the  sentimental  differences 
between  the  two  points  of  a  three  years'  social  hiatus. 

79 


MANDERS 

"Besides,"  contended  the  estimable  lady  with  the 
dogmatism  of  an  experienced  campaigner,  "nathing 
could  be  more  bizcvrre  than  going  through  the  trouble 
and  cost  of  European  culture  if  you  are  to  end  by 
marrying  a  provincial  nobody." 

That  Florence  should  so  imprudently  set  at  nought 
the  solemnities  of  a  sage  conference  was  quite  enough 
to  justify  a  rebuke,  the  right  wording  of  which  Mrs 
Storey  was  casting  about  in  her  mind  to  find  when 
a  servant  entered  to  announce  that  madame's  carriage 
was  in  readiness. 

The  ladies  had  only  to  give  to  hair  and  toilet  those 
mysterious  final  pats  and  thrusts  before  a  mirror, 
which  to  the  masculine  perception  are  entirely  with- 
out result,  and  in  ten  minutes'  time  they  were  seated 
in  the  smart  carriage,  with  liveried  coachman  and 
footman,  which  Mrs  Storey  had  hired  ensemble  for 
the  rest  of  the  season. 

After  a  drive  of  an  hour  or  more,  during  which 
joyous  excitement  Florence  had  a  comforting  number 
of  bows  from  friends  and  acquaintances,  they  went  to 
keep  their  appointment  at  the  Madrid.  Mr  Menden- 
hall  had  been  thoughtful  enough  to  reserve  a  table, 
at  which  he  sat  in  isolated  sovereignty  an  they 
drove  up. 

Blakemore  saw  in  Mr  John  Mendenhall  an  average 
well-bred  English  gentleman,  some  years  older  than 
himself,  neither  more  nor  less  interesting  than  the 
majority  of  his  class,  such  a  man  as  he  could 
denominate  "  a  good  fellow,"  and  certainly  not  more 

80 


MANDERS 

dull  than  need  be.  Indeed,  he  presently  began  to 
suspect  the  sincerity  of  Florence's  postscript  to  her 
note,  and  to  attach  some  importance  to  her  casual 
remark  in  the  carriage  that  Mr  Mendenhall  had  only 
an  old  man,  an  invalid,  his  uncle,  between  him  and 
a  baronage,  so  that  he  was  in  danger  of  one  day 
becoming  a  peer.  He  thought  her  far  too  willing  to 
show  this  heir-conditional  the  amiabilities  of  her 
temper,  and  was  more  annoyed  than  he  should  have 
been  when  she  suddenly  asked,  with  a  malicious 
twinkle,  it  seemed  to  him,  "  Who  was  the  pretty  girl 
to  whom  you  were  so  devoted  at  St  Cloud  the  other 
day  ?  Was  that  a  genuine  studio  grisette  ?  " 

"  Oh !  that  genus  of  grisettes  has  been  extinct 
these  many  years,"  he  said,  conscious  of  more  than  a 
becoming  colour  in  his  face,  and  glad  that  Menden- 
hall was  talking  to  Mrs  Storey  at  the  moment; 
"that  was  Madame  Manders." 

"Ah!"  said  Florence,  with  the  air  of  one  having 
been  fully  enlightened.  "Then  that  was  her  little 
boy  with  you  ? " 

"Yes,  that  was  Manders." 

"Manders!     Is  that  his  Christian  name?** 

"  No,"  he  laughed  ;  "  his  name  is  Edouard,  but  his 
father,  who  was  also  an  Edward,  always  called  him 
'  Manders '  to  prevent  confusion  in  the  manage.  The 
name  seems  to  fit  him ;  he  is  an  odd  little  chap." 

"And  is  Monsieur  Manders  one  of  your  inti- 
mates?" 

"I  never  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing   Monsieur 


MANDERS 

Manders.     He  got  through  with  life  before  I  made 
the  acquaintance  of  his  family." 

"A  widow,  then!  that  makes  it  more  interesting, 
doesn't  it?" 

"I  wonder  if  you  are  talking  of  Edward  Manders 
who  drowned  himself  five  or  six  months  ago  ? "  asked 
Mr  Mendenhall. 

"Drowned  himself!"  exclaimed  Florence.  "How 
romantic!  What  an  uncommonly  fortunate  fellow 
you  are,  Walter!" 

"Yes,"  said  Blakemore,  answering  Mr  Mendenhal.l 
"  Did  you  know  him  ? " 

"  We  were  at  Cambridge  together.  Poor  devil !  He 
went  to  the  dogs  in  a  hurry.  One  of  the  sort  money 
ruins,  you  know.  Plenty  of  good  qualities,  but  no 
balance.  Made  a  bad  go  of  it  over  here,  and  the 
family  shut  the  doors  on  him.  Took  up  with  a 
Latin  Quarter  danseuse,  or  something  of  the  kind 
— I  don't  know  the  particulars — who  helped  him 
on  his  way  to  the  bow-wows." 

"You  have  been  misinformed,"  Blakemore  inter- 
rupted warmly ;  "  he  married  a  most  estimable  girl, 
one  worthy  of  any  man's  respect." 

"  Yes,  Mr  Blakemore  knows  the  widow  intimately," 
Florence  explained,  smiling  significantly  at  Blake- 
more. 

"  Keally  I "  said  Mrs  Storey,  as  if  she  doubted  that 
the  intimacy  was  conclusive  proof  of  the  widow's 
respectability.  "  I  daresay  Mr  Blakemore  has  a  some- 
what general  acquaintance." 

8a 


MANDERS 

"Then  you  know  Mrs  Manders?"  Mr  Mendenhall 
nsked,  with  deferential  politeness. 

"Quite  well,"  assented  Blakemore. 

"And  she  is  not  what  the  family  believes  her  to 
be?" 

14  She  is  a  thoroughly  good  woman,"  said  Blake- 
more,  with  a  dignity  that  allowed  no  doubt  of  his 
sincerity. 

Mr  Mendenhall  slightly  raised  his  eyebrows  in 
disagreement  with  the  nod  of  acquiescence  he  gave 
to  Blakemore's  statement  as  he  asked, — 

"Don't  you  think  it  strange,  then,  that  she 
should  sign  a  paper  declaring  that  her  child  had 
no  claim  whatever  on  the  Manders  family?" 

"  She  signed  such  a  paper  ? "  Blakemore  asked 
incredulously. 

"Mark  Manders,  Ned's  younger  brother,  told  me 
so  at  the  club  one  night  not  long  afterwards." 

"Marie — Madame  Manders  says  her  husband's 
brothers  were  unkind  to  her  and  terrified  her.  If 
she  signed  any  such  paper — " 

"I  hardly  think  they  would  do  anything  like 
that,"  said  Mr  Mendenhall,  quietly,  anticipating 
Blakemore's  accusation  and  disposing  of  it. 

The  check  was  timely.  It  brought  Blakemore  to 
a  consciousness  of  symptoms  of  rising  temper  in  his 
blood,  and  gave  him  opportunity  to  modify  his  pro- 
posed remark. 

"  I  was  only  going  to  say,"  he  continued,  in  matter- 
of-fact  tone,  but  with  a  deprecatory  look  at  Florence, 


MANDERS 

"that  if  Madame  Manders  signed  such  a  paper,  she 
did  not  realise  the  importance  of  her  act." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mr  Mendenhall,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  Then  he  added,  looking  over  his  wine 
glass  at  Blakemore,  and  smiling  as  only  worldly- 
minded  men  have  learned  to  smile  when  they  speak 
of  indifferent  women,  "But  it  really  doesn't  matter, 
I  suppose.  We  waste  a  lot  of  time  with  our  ridi- 
culous prejudices  in  this  higgledy-piggledy  world  of 
ours.  Don't  you  think  so,  Miss  Storey?" 

"  I  can't  say,"  replied  that  young  lady ;  "  I  haven't 
a  prejudice  of  any  sort,  unless  an  objection  to  sitting 
too  long  in  one  place  amounts  to  a  prejudice.  I 
should  love  to  walk  about  a  little.  Can't  we?" 

Mr  Mendenhall  had  taken  a  box  for  the  theatre  for 
that  night.  Got  was  to  play.  Blakemore  was  per- 
suaded, much  too  easily,  Mrs  Storey  thought,  to 
join  the  party  after  dinner,  he  having  declared  it 
impossible  that  he  should  dress  and  return  in  time 
to  dine  with  them. 

"  You  look  well  enough  to  come  along  as  you  are," 
Florence  had  urged.  "  The  French  are  indifferent  to 
evening  dress,  you  know." 

"  But  I  am  afraid  Mr  Mendenhall  isn't,"  Blakemore 
replied  good-humouredly,  but  quite  resolved  not  to  go. 

"I  confess,"  Mr  Mendenhall  admitted  smilingly, 
"that  I  think  a  morning  coat  quite  capable  of  dis- 
turbing the  unities  of  a  box-party.  Still — " 

Blakemore  found  the  shaded  lamp  burning  on  the 
table  of  his  salon  when  he  returned  to  his  apart- 

84 


MANDERS 

merits,  the  rosy  light  falling  on  the  white  square  of 
a  note  Marie  had  left  for  him.  Fanchette  came  in 
to  direct  his  attention  to  it,  and  to  babble  her  super- 
fluous opinions  of  the  merits  of  the  "  tres  gentille 
fille"  and  her  "sage  petit  garden,"  who  had  gone 
away  scarcely  half  an  hour  before. 

Marie's  penmanship  did  not  proclaim  an  adept  in 
writing,  but  Blakemore  thought  the  sentiment  of  the 
large  scrawled  words  sufficiently  excused  the  want 
of  skill 

"  We  have  been  very  happy  here  to-day,  only  not 
as  happy  as  we  would  have  been  if  you  had  come 
home  to  dinner.  I  put  on  the  yellow  gown  and  sat 
as  I  would  have  sat  for  you,  and  Manders  looked  at 
me  a  long  time  and  then  he  said,  '  You  are  a  very 
pretty  maman.'  Is  he  not  only  a  silly  little  boy  ? 
Shall  I  come  to-morrow  ?  or  has  the  nice  young  lady 
taken  my  painter  away  from  me  ?  " 

Blakemore  folded  up  the  note  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket,  without  exactly  knowing  why. 


CHAPTER  VI 

NOT  only  did  the  work  in  the  little  garden 
suffer  many  interruptions,  but  Blakemore's  morning 
absences  from  the  school,  or  "  Academy,"  as  M.  Monier 
preferred  to  hear  it  named,  began  also  to  be  the 
subject  of  more  or  less  complimentary  gossip.  Tom 
Milsom  declared  with  an  affectation  of  grave  solici- 
tude that  their  fellow  student  was  "going  it,"  an 
ambiguous  judgment,  but  one  to  which  the  others 
deferred  as  if  "going  it"  definitely  described  a 
catalogued  human  infirmity.  That  it  was  a  re- 
mediable infirmity  they  recognised  by  appointing  a 
committee  of  remonstrance,  with  Milsom  as  chairman, 
and  there  was  much  grave  talk  directed  against  the 
peccant  Blakemore  during  the  "  rest "  in  the  morning 
of  his  next  appearance.  There  was  an  intimation 
that  continued  negligence  of  the  sort  complained 
of  might  lead  to  the  offender's  being  hung  up 
and  painted,  a  punitive  measure  only  applied,  in 
the  natural  order  of  things,  to  an  objectionable 
"nouveau."  Blakemore  did  not  present  the  appear- 
ance of  one  greatly  intimidated,  and  there  was  not 
that  amendment  of  conduct  which  argues  a  penitent 
spirit.  Nor  did  the  negative  chidings  of  Marie,  who 

86 


MANDERS 

asked  if  it  was  in  any  way  her  fault  that  the  girl  in 
yellow  came  on  so  slowly,  have  a  more  corrective 
influence.  She  came  regularly  every  afternoon  at 
the  appointed  hour,  obedient  to  a  punctilious  sense 
of  obligation,  though  with  increasing  regularity 
Fanchette  announced, — 

"Monsieur  will  not  be  here  to-day." 

Marie  was  usually  accompanied  by  Manders  now. 
The  child,  released  from  scholastic  discipline  at  four 
o'clock,  had  begun  to  have  a  repugnance  to  the 
society  of  Mother  Pugens  and  the  slip-shod  girl 
who  came  to  fetch  him  from  the  school.  He  did  not 
make  his  objections  very  clear  to  Marie,  but  the  fact 
was  Mother  Pugens  had  a  fondness  for  insinuating 
bits  of  curious  philosophy  into  her  affable  chats 
with  Manders,  and  he  got  from  them  an  indistinct 
impression  of  a  skeleton  which  Mother  Pugens 
supposed  Marie  to  have  hidden  away  somewhere. 
Her  generalisations  were  tending  rapidly  toward 
particulars. 

"It's  a  pity,"  she  said  one  day,  "but  you  will 
know  sometime,  and  for  my  part  I  think  you  are  old 
enough  to  be  told  now.  You  will  be  coming  upon 
the  skeleton  as  a  surprise  some  fine  evening,  and  then 
what  will  that  silly  maman  of  yours  have  to  say, 
I  should  like  to  know,  you  poor  dear!"  Then  the 
good  soul  patted  the  child  comfortingly  on  the  head 
and  asked,  "  Hadn't  I  better  tell  you,  my  dear  ? " 

Manders,  his  eyes  more  eloquent  than  his  lips, 
looked  frowningly  up  at  her,  and  declared  with 

87 


MANDERS 

energy,  "  If  you  tell  me  anything  my  mama.n  won't 
tell  me,  I  shall  hate  you ! " 

But  his  mind  got  into  troublesome  wonderment, 
nevertheless,  and  Mother  Pugens,  whose  bon-bons 
and  little  cakes  one  time  gave  sweetness  to  her 
really  good-natured  countenance,  was  transformed  by 
degrees  into  an  ogre  in  Manders'  sight,  her  benevolent 
smile  narrowing  into  a  malignant  leer,  her  terms  of 
endearment  becoming  abominable  seductions.  In  the 
degree  that  the  loose-tongued  shopwoman  diminished 
in  his  regard,  Marie  became  more  and  more  the 
worthy  object  of  his  passionate  devotion ;  and  when  at 
last  she  yielded  to  his  entreaties  to  come  to  the  school 
for  him  herself,  it  only  needed  that  she  should  make 
him  the  companion  of  her  walk  to  Blakemore's, 
where  he  was  permitted  to  make  free  with  the  estab- 
lishment, to  fill  up  and  make  overflow  his  liberal 
cup  of  happiness.  These  were  pleasant  days  for 
Manders,  and  he  did  not  at  all  share  with  Marie  her 
concern  for  the  artistic  laxity  of  the  master  of  the 
well-appointed  rooms  and  the  pleasant  garden.  In- 
deed, there  was  some  gain  to  him  from  these  absences, 
for  Marie,  whom  Manders  pere  had  taught  some 
things,  made  use  of  the  piano  and  sang  little  songs 
with  mellow,  sweet  voice  in  a  way  to  enchant 
Manders,  whose  love  of  music  was  not,  of  course, 
tinctured  by  the  critical  acid.  He  would  lean  against 
the  instrument  in  a  position  to  see  her  face,  and 
never  wearied  of  listening  to  her.  Sometimes  there 
were  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  he  would  come  nearer  to 


MANDERS 

Ins  mother,  stealing  an  arm  about  her  waist,  as  if  the 
melody  had  in  it  a  premonition  that  the  singer  would 
not  always  be  here  within  hand  touch.  One  song  in 
particular  affected  him,  the  air  of  which  was  so  simple 
that  he  had  caught  it,  and  he  knew  without  under- 
standing one  of  the  verses  that  sang  itself  in  his 
memory  often  when  he  lay  waiting  in  his  cot  for 
tardy  sleep. 

If  the  light  should  go  and  the  roses  fade, 
And  earth  grow  cold  and  the  birds  not  sing, 

My  heart  should  not  be  the  least  afraid, 
For  love  of  you  makes  eternal  spring  ! 

But  should  we  miss  love,  you  and  I, 

Though  death  were  life  my  soul  would  did  1 

The  song  was  for  him,  and  Marie  was  the  giver  of 
the  spring  so  full  of  gladness.  He  dreamed  some- 
times that  they  two  had  lost  the  love  from  which  life 
and  brightness  and  happiness  arose,  and  that  Marie 
had  gone  a  long  journey  in  the  darkness  m  quest  of 
it.  Waked  from  sleep  by  his  own  sobbing,  he  would 
go,  trembling  with  forebodings,  to  caress  with  his 
finger  tips  the  warm  cheek  of  the  sleeper,  so  happily 
unconscious  of  his  fears.  These  dreams  and  peturba- 
tions  were  his  own  secret,  which  he  never  thought  of 
confiding  to  Marie;  but  the  remembrance  of  them 
came  vividly  into  his  mind  whenever  she  sang  this 
song,  and  his  arm  was  put  out  to  keep  her  from 
gliding  away  from  him  into  that  desolate  and  haunted 
darkness. 

The  child  was  BO  much  stronger  than  the  woman. 
ft) 


MANDERS 

June  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  Storeys  were 
preparing  to  go  to  Switzerland.  Mrs  Storey  had 
made  many  vain  flutterings  to  hasten  the  departure. 
Her  reason  for  such  eagerness  to  quit  a  scene  in 
which  she  found  the  fullest  gratification  of  what  she 
was  pleased  to  term  her  hedonic  tastes,  was  expressed 
in  a  contemptuous  paragraph  in  one  of  her  letters  to 
Mr  Storey.  "  Florence  is  irritating  the  life  out  of 
me.  The  girl  has  your  vulgar  want  of  decent  ambi- 
tion, and  persists  in  fooling  away  her  time  and 
opportunities  with  this  stupid  Walter  Blakemore,  who 
seems  more  drearily  commonplace  than  ever.  She 
has  picked  up  some  of  your  prattle  about  men  who 
achieve  their  own  distinction,  and  talks  of  Blakemore's 
artistic  genius  as  if  a  mere  picture  painter  could  ever 
compare  with  an  hereditary  peer  of  England — for  I 
have  told  you  that  Mr  Mendenhall  is  entitled,  or 
some  day  will  be  entitled,  to  sit  in  the  House  of  Lords. 
I  suppose  you  cannot  see  any  choice  between  plain 
Mrs  and  LADY,  but  that  is  only  because  you  haven't 
an  idea  beyond  the  balancing  of  your  ledger.  Mr 
Mendenhall  will  go  to  Geneva  with  us  if  I  can  ever 
bring  Florence  to  be  reasonable  enough  to  let  her 
trunks  be  packed,  but  she  is  now  gushing  Blake- 
more's idiocy  about  the  charms  of  Paris  in  July  !  At 
the  same  time  I  do  not  believe  she  cares  a  row 
of  pins  for  Blakemore.  And  I  can't  see  why  she 
should." 

Florence  and  Blakemore  seemed  to  have  arrived 
at  a  contrary  conclusion  in  the  course  of  the  three 

90 


MANDERS 

weeks  in  which  the  young  lady  had  contrived,  despite 
a  great  amount  of  social  excitement,  more  than  once 
to  make  excursions  of  a  restful  character  in  Blake- 
more's  company  free  from  the  maternal  surveillance. 
It  is  true  these  fruitful  escapades  were  masked  by 
the  pretence  of  shopping,  devotional  pilgrimages,  or 
any  easy  deception  that  would  serve  to  answer  Mrs 
Storey's  unsuspicious  and  too  careless  questions,  but 
subtleties  of  this  sort  are  elementary  to  forbidden 
friendships.  The  ethics  of  the  situation  did  not 
trouble  Blakemore,  for  the  simple  reason  that  they 
did  not  occur  to  him,  it  being  his  opinion  that  Mrs 
Storey  was  one  of  those  irreconcilable  dogmatists  in 
the  friendships  of  the  sexes  whom  it  is  the  duty  of 
every  purposeful  young  gentleman  to  oppose  with 
artifice.  Florence  was  equally  free  from  pricks  of 
conscience.  The  deceptions  she  practised  upon  her 
mother  were,  she  thought,  no  more  than  the  necessary 
diplomacies  of  a  girl  whose  rightful  independence  of 
thought  and  action  was  capriciously  abridged.  She 
knew  herself  perfectly  capable  of  governing  her  own 
conduct  within  the  limits  of  discretion  as  she  under- 
stood, discretion,  and  did  not  admit  the  right  of 
foreign  prejudices  to  place  a  fretful  restraint  upon 
the  "  sensible  liberties  of  our  American  system,  which 
recognises  woman  as  an  intelligent  and  responsible 
being." 

Their  first  adventure  together  was  a  drive  to  one 
of  the  environs,  to  which  the  greater  part  of  the  day 
was  devoted.  When  Florence  proposed  it,  Blakemore, 


MANDERS 

with  a  momentary  deference  to  Parisian  convention, 
was  for  taking  Mrs  Storey  with  them. 

"  Nonsense  ! "  Florence  replied,  with  an  emphasis 
that  made  Blakemore  ashamed  of  his  nice  scruples. 
"  I  hate  being  chaperoned  as  if  I  were  an  invalid  or 
an  idiot.  I  think  there  is  nothing  so  immoral  as  this 
odious  European  custom  of  branding  every  girl  as  a 
creature  not  fit  to  be  trusted  alone.  Propriety  ?  There 
is  no  propriety  about  it ;  it  is  downright  indecency. 
It  is  an  advertisement  of  society's  belief  that  a  girl 
between  the  age  of  fifteen  and  matrimony  is  a 
natural  reprobate  longing  for  an  abyss  in  which  to 
fling  herself.  It  is  detestable.  It  makes  my  blood 
boil.  I  won't  submit  to  it.  There  is  nothing  would 
send  me  to  Old  Nick  faster  than  a  chaperon  con- 
tinually prodding  me  in  the  back  with  maxima  If 
you  have  any  wish  to  see  me  lead  a  respectable  life, 
do  help  me  to  preserve  my  independence/' 

Assaulted  in  this  determined  fashion,  Blakemore's 
argumentative  barriers  were  beaten  into  particles, 
and  he  made  an  unconditional  surrender  to  every 
sprightly  whim  of  a  girl  whose  self-assured  spirit 
had  in  it  so  many  elements  of  dangerous  fascination. 
Further  experience  convinced  him  that  Florence  had 
made  a  sufficiently  thorough  diagnosis  of  the  half- 
dozen  motives  to  human  conduct  to  be  fortified 
against  surprise  in  any  direction,  and  that  the  course 
of  action  to  which  she  might  commit  herself  would  be 
deliberately  chosen.  The  question  he  began  to  ask 
himself  was  whether  her  choice  would  be  love  or 


MANDERS 

ambition ;  and  the  egotism  which  is  the  reservoir  of 
energy  in  every  healthy  mind  determined  him  to 
educate  her  choice  favourably  to  himself.  He  became 
so  much  engrossed  in  the  self-imposed  tutorage  that 
he  was  not  aware  of  the  extent  of  Florence's  invasion 
of  his  own  reserve  until  it  was  nearly  time  to  return 
to  the  Avenue  Marceau  from  the  last  of  their  stolen 
outings.  Then  he  learned  from  the  turbulence  in  his 
breast  how  recklessly  he  had  played  the  pedagogue 
without  taking  account  of  the  progress  of  his  pupil. 

They  were  sitting  on  a  bench  below  the  fortifi- 
cations at  the  edge  of  the  Bois  de  Vincennes,  that 
grandfather  of  the  parks  of  Paris  so  dear  to  the 
bourgeoisie  and  the  holiday  rabble.  They  had  spent 
the  morning  on  the  banks  of  the  Marae,  one  of  the 
loveliest  and  most  capricious  rivers  of  France,  where, 
in  the  soft  days  of  the  young  summer,  the  artists  and 
the  dreamers  went  to  find  ravishing  bits  of  shade  and 
colour  as  they  lounged  on  the  turf  beneath  trees  that 
overhung  the  water,  busy  mills,  picturesque  farm- 
houses, cosy  vine-embowered  cottages,  and  even  a 
shepherdess  here  and  there  to  quicken  the  scene  that 
lends  itself  so  charmingly  to  romance.  They  had 
rambled  about  and  through  the  old  chateau,  now  a 
garrison,  in  which  the  ghosts  of  royal  history  still 
keep  their  revels  or  repeat  to  the  imagination  the 
grim  terrors  of  old  tragedies  like  that  of  the  Due 
d'Enghien,  fusilladed  in  the  dry  moat;  they  had 
strolled  along  the  little  paths  like  aisles  in  the  forest, 
once  the  haunt  of  deer  and  the  wild  boar  preserved 

93 


M ANDERS 

for  the  royal  hunt,  but  now  effeminated  to  childish 
recreations  and  promenades  of  the  careless ;  and  they 
had  come,  on  their  way  to  the  stand  of  the  voitures, 
to  this  isolated  rustic  bench  with  just  a  ribbon  of 
sunlight  in  the  branches  above  it. 

"  And  this  is  our  last  day  together — alone  ? "  asked 
Blakemore,  as  if  there  were  any  doubt  of  the  fact. 

"Unless  you  make  up  your  mind  to  go  to 
Switzerland  with  us,"  she  answered,  her  smile  having 
something  of  a  challenge  in  it. 

"I  can't  do  that." 

"No?" 

"No.  I'm  not  a  gentleman  of  leisure  like  Mr 
Mendenhall." 

"  Keally  ?  I  have  seen  no  evidence  to  the  con- 
trary." 

"  Ah  f  That  is  true.  You  have  made  an  idler  of 
me." 

"And  you  reproach  me  for  it.  That's  a  man's 
way." 

"You  know  what  I  think  about  it.  You  know 
what  these  days  with  you  have  meant  to  me.  You 
know  what  your  going  away  means  to  me."  He  took 
her  hand  as  he  spoke,  but  she  laughingly  drew  it 
away  and  checked  his  movement  toward  her  with  an 
admonitory  shake  of  the  head. 

•"  Now,  you  must  not  spoil  the  day  by  a  splash  of 
personal  sentiment.  I  don't  want  you  to  say  some- 
thing that  will  sound  foolish  to  you  when  you  recall 
it  after  I  am  gone.  You  have  kept  your  head  so  well 

94 


MANDERS 

in  our  little  jaunts  and  frolics  that  I  have  quite  a 
good  opinion  of  your  common  sense.  But  what  shall 
I  think  of  you  if  you  do  as  all  the  rest  of  them  do  ? " 

"  But  I  am  in  earnest,  Florence ! " 

"So  am  I,  Walter,  as  I  shall  prove  to  you  by 
talking  with  what  the  story  books  would  call  un- 
maidenly  franknesa  You  think  you  love  me,  don't 
you?" 

"  I  don't  think  it,  I  know  it,"  he  answered  ardently, 
and  seizing  once  more  upon  her  hand,  this  time  in  a 
more  secure  grasp. 

"Very  well,  then,  you  know  it,"  she  assented, 
making  no  effort  to  release  her  hand  nor  to  prevent 
his  kissing  it.  "Now,  then,  let  us  see  what  would 
be  the  consequences  of  a  corresponding  weakness  on 
my  part.  You  are  an  artist  at  the  beginning  of  a 
career — " 

"I'm  a  duffer  with  no  prospect  of  a  career,"  he 
interrupted,  promptly  pushing  aside  the  first  obstacle. 

"  And  do  you  think  I  would  marry  a  '  duffer '  ? "  she 
asked  mischievously.  "But  you  are  not  a  'duffer,' 
and  I  am  sure  you  have  all  the  requisites  of  success, 
if  you  don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself  by  marrying 
some  girl  without  an  atom  of  sympathy  in  her 
make-up,  and  who  would  lead  you  a  dance  of 
despair." 

"  You  are  not  that  sort  of  girl,"  he  urged  stoutly. 

"But  you  have  no  business  to  marry  at  all,"  she 
insisted,  "until  you  have  got  up  the  hill  where  you 
won't  mind  a  weight  being  hung  round  your  neck. 

95 


MANDERS 

Besides,  I  am  not  ready  to  think  of  becoming  a 
bond-slave  to  a  man  yet — of  being  labelled  as 
someone's  private  property  from  which  trespassers 
are  warned.  That  amuses  you,  doesn't  it  ?  Then  I 
must  tell  you  cold-bloodedly  that  the  man  I  will 
consent  to  marry  must  offer  me  a  substantial  equiva- 
lent for  my  liberty.  Love  isn't  enough.  That  is  the 
cheapest  merchandise  in  the  market.  Money  is  but 
a  little  more  considerable,  for  a  very  rich  man  may 
be  a  mere  beast;  besides,  I  shall  have  plenty  of 
money.  I  should  hesitate  a  long  time  before  refus- 
ing a  sounding  title  provided  the  creature  that  went 
with  it  were  not  intolerably  odious.  If  it  were  a 
choice  between  these  three  things  only  I  might  be 
persuaded  to  make  n  initial  experiment  in  love. 
But  there  is  another  consideration  greater  than 
these  that  I  think  embraces  them  all — I  mean 
Fame,  real  fame,  fame  gained  by  the  patient  exer- 
cise of  a  commanding  talent.  I  could  adore  a  great 
man ;  I  haven't  much  use  for  the  other  kind." 

She  said  all  this  so  good-humouredly  that  Blake- 
more  was  not  dismayed  by  it.  It  rather  gave  him 
courage  to  set  himself  before  her  in  the  favourable 
light  of  one  not  unlikely  to  meet  her  requirements 
if  she  would  give  him  time  and  a  sustaining  promise 
Men  became,  he  declared  with  unreasoning  enthusi- 
asm, whatever  women  chose  to  make  of  them,  so 
great  was  man's  need  of  an  inspiring  motive  such 
as  love  for  woman  alone  could  give  him.  Sha 
listened  to  his  ardent  and  insistent  eloquence, 

96 


MANDERS 

smiling  to  note  the  increased  confidence  with 
which  he  rounded  each  uninterrupted  period,  but 
giving  no  sign  that  his  words  were  other  than 
vain  beatings  at  her  ears.  He  imagined  that  he 
bad  routed  her  pretended  objections,  and  inter- 
preted her  silence  to  suit  his  wishes,  and  was 
already  beginning  to  have  a  sense  of  possession, 
when  she  said  naively, — 

"These  seem  to  be  very  well-rehearsed  ideas  of 
yours ;  are  you  sure  I  am  the  first  one  to  whom  you 
have  addressed  this  persuasive  speech?  I  wouldn't 
be  at  all  surprised  if  you  had  practised  on  that 
pretty  Madame  Manders.  Confess,  now." 

"Be  serious,  Florence;  dont  torment  a  fellow. 
Give  me  an  honest  answer.  Will  you  ? " 

"Yes,  the  honestest  I  have  at  hand.  I  like  yon 
as  well  as  I  like  any  man  I  know,  perhaps  a  little 
better.  I  have  let  you  buy  me  a  lot  of  presents  that 
I  didn't  really  want,  and  only  one  of  two  things 
could  be  inferred  from  that  under  ordinary  condi- 
tions, either  that  I  am  your  fiance'e,  or  that  I  am  a 
girl  without — well,  say  principle.  Now,  I  am  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other — I  am  simply  a  young  lady 
who  claims  the  privilege  of  acting  in  accordance 
with  her  own  ideas  of  right  and  wrong,  and  with- 
out caring  a  great  deal  for  any  notions  Mrs  Qrundy 
may  have  on  the  subject.  I  meant  pretty  nearly  all 
I  said  a  while  ago,  but  there  is  a  modification  or  two. 
Perhaps  if  I  were  to  fall  in  love  with  *  man  I  should 
not  stop  to  consider  whether  he  were  a  fishmonger 


MANDERS 

or  a  maharajah,  but  would  marry  him  at  the  first 
asking.  But  I'm  not  in  love,  and  I  don't  even 
recognise  any  symptomatic  tendencies  in  that  direc- 
tion. Wait,  wait,  wait!  I'll  make  a  bargain  with 
you.  Why,  you  looked  as  if  you  were  going  into 
a  temper !  Ill  make  this  bargain  with  you ;  we  will 
go  our  respective  ways  in  a  two  years'  further  experi- 
ment with  life.  If  in  the  course  of  that  time  I  get 
into  an  entanglement  with  anybody  else,  I'll  send 
these  presents  back  to  you ;  if  you  find  that  your 
affection  for  me  is  merely  a  midsummer  madness, 
and  Paris  madness  at  that,  you  will  demand  the 
return  of  your  property;  but  if  at  the  end  of  the 
two  years  we  are  still  freebooters — well,  we  will 
meet  somewhere  and  have  another  talk  on  this 
subject.  Do  you  agree?" 

He  laughed  a  little  dubiously,  having  less  assur- 
ance than  before,  and  not  quite  certain  just  how  he 
should  understand  the  unorthodox  utterance  of  this 
girl  of  twenty  who  talked  like  a  disappointed  widow. 
He  fumbled  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  and  drew  forth 
a  tiny  morocco  case. 

"  I'll  agree  if  you.  will  wear  an  engagement  ring  I 
have  here." 

"So  you  came  prepared?  You  did  take  me  for 
granted,  didn't  you?  You  are  a  veritable  country 
swain,  an  Augusta  Evans  sort  of  youth.  Let  me 
see  it." 

He  opened  the  case  and  handed  her  the  ring.  She 
took  it  with  an  exclamation  of  pleasure. 

98 


MANDERS 

ai"  approve  your  taste.  It  is  very  pretty — rich 
but  not  showy.  Well,  I'll  wear  it  if  you  want  me 
to— but  not  as  an  engagement  ring.  I  detest  engage- 
ments; they  are  coo  much  like  paying  a  deposit  on 
goods  to  be  called  for.  I  don't  propose  to  give  you 
or  anyone  the  right  to  tyrannise  over  my  conduct. 
Shall  I  wear  it  under  those  conditions?" 

"Under  any  conditions  you  please." 

"It  means  absolutely  nothing  in  the  way  of  an 
engagement  ? " 

"  Absolutely  nothing." 

"  You  would  have  no  right  to  complain  if  I  should 
marry  Mr  Mendenhall  next  week  ? " 

•  None  whatever." 

"Then  I'll  put  it  on.  Of  course  I  allow  you  the 
same  freedom  that  I  claim  for  myself." 

"Naturally." 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  moments,  Florence 
rearranging  her  rings  to  give  the  new  one  a  becom- 
ing place,  Blakemore  nervously  revolving  an  idea  he 
thought  appropriate  to  the  occasion. 

At  last  he  said  hesitatingly, — 

"  There  is  generally  a  seal  put  upon  a  ceremony  of 
this  kind." 

"  But,  my  dear  Walter,  we  have  distinctly  declared 
that  there  is  no  ceremony  about  it."  She  resolutely 
shook  her  head.  "Come,  the  sun  has  gone  down; 
I'll  barely  get  home  in  time  to  dress  for  dinner." 

She  rose  as  she  spoke.  Blakemore  sprang  to  his 
feet  There  was  no  one  in  view.  He  clasped  her 

99 


MANDERS 

passionately  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  full  on 
the  lips. 

"Well,  you  are  impulsive!"  she  exclaimed,  sur- 
prised by  the  suddenness  of  the  attack,  and  pushing 
him  from  her.  "  And  really,  do  you  know,  I  hadn't 
noticed  before  that  you  have  raised  a  moustache ? 
It's  rather  becoming." 

She  stood  regarding  him  at  arm's  length  for  a 
moment,  the  amused  smile  on  her  lips  taking  the 
shadow  of  a  seriousness  in  her  eyes. 

"But  a  moustache  is  supposed  to  be  a  certificate 
that  one  has  attained  years  of  discretion,  and  I  must 
request  you  to  play  no  more  schoolboy  pranks  with 
me.  I  think  I  rather  admire  reserve  in  a  man. 
Keep  your  impulses  from  getting  the  better  of  you. 
You  might  fall  out  of  my  favour.  There  is  an  empty 
cab  crawling  along  the  road ;  shall  we  take  it  ? " 


CHAPTER    VII 

AFTER  the  departure  of  the  Storeys,  accompanied  by 
Mr  Mendenhall,  Blakemore  very  gladly  withdrew 
from  the  social  dissipations  of  which  he  had  been 
the  too  willing  victim,  vigorously  declining  the 
invitations,  still  numerous  enough  notwithstanding 
the  end  of  the  fashionable  season.  He  applied 
himself  to  work  with  a  diligence,  both  in  the 
school  and  in  the  garden,  that  promised  to  make 
up  the  lost  time.  Not  only  increased  zeal,  but  a 
new  spirit  also  animated  him.  All  the  perplexities, 
the  hindrances,  the  obtuseness  of  his  three  years 
persistence  in  the  Monier  academy  suddenly  re- 
solved themselves  into  nothingness,  leaving  him 
clear  -  visioned,  perceptive,  competently  executive. 
The  sureness  with  which  he  now  applied  principles 
which  M.  Monier  had  despaired  of  teaching  him  gave 
the  master  a  gratifying  surprise,  and  bewildered  the 
students,  who  knew  so  much  less  of  these  instant 
awakenings  than  did  the  old  master,  who  had  seen 
genius  break  its  shell  of  dulness  before  this.  Mil- 
som,  in  his  irreverent  way  explaining  the  pheno- 
menon in  Blakemore's  absence,  declared  — 

101 


MANDERS 

"The  cuss  hasn't  been  loafing  as  we  thought.;  he 
has  been  sneaking  it  in  some  other  school." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  old  M.  Monier,  with  a  chuckle ; 
"the  school  of  hearts." 

But  M.  Monier  was  thinking  of  Marie. 

Marie  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  the  delight 
with  which  the  change  in  Blakemore  filled  her. 
She  knew  well  enough  to  what  it  was  attributable, 
and  was  grateful  to  the  American  girl ;  it  made 
small  difference  to  her  what  had  brought  about  a 
result  so  admirable.  She  was  conscious  of  no  other 
feeling  than  sincere  pleasure  that  the  "  creation  "  was 
going  on,  going  on  well,  and  that  Blakemore  was 
getting  the  habit  of  humming  fragments  of  song 
by  way  of  approving  his  work  when  he  paused  to 
inspect  it.  Her  heart  sang  songs,  too,  and  she 
accounted  to  herself  for  these  bubblings  of  happi- 
ness by  saying,  "He  is  going  to  arrive  some  day. 
He  is  going  to  be  a  great  artist  after  all.  And  I, 
too,  am  helping  him ! "  Manders  came  in  for  his 
share  of  her  raptures — raptures  that  demanded  an 
outward  expansion. 

"  You  like  M  .Blakemore  very,  very  much,  do  you 
not,  cheri?" 

"Yes,  I  like  M.  Bla'mo'.  But  I  call  him  M. 
Walter,  now." 

"And  you  are  right,  cheri,"  hugging  him  as  if 
by  that  means  to  confirm  the  privilege;  "and  M. 
Walter  is  so  much  nicer  than  M.  Blakemore,  eh, 
mon  enfant?" 


MANDERS 

"It  is  easier  to  say,"  assented  Manders,  unemo- 
tionally. 

"But  you  like  M.  Walter  himself  more  than 
you  used  to  like  M.  Biakemore,  do  you  not?" 

"You  are  a  funny  maman,  I  think.  Don't  you 
know  it  is  the  same  thing?  M.  Walter  and  M. 
Bla'mo'  are  both  one;  how  am  I  able  to  like  one 
better  than  the  other?" 

No  cleverness  of  speech  could  have  amused  her 
more.  Manders  was  laughing  at  her,  she  saw  plainly. 
She  had  learned  to  interpret  that  extra  stolidity  of 
countenance  with  which  he  masked  his  lapses  into 
humorousness.  But  she  liked  being  laughed  at  by 
Manders.  She  thought  it  so  wise  in  him. 

"  You  are  right ;  how,  indeed ! " 

She  gave  him  a  final  caress,  that  ended  in  a  playful 
pull  at  his  ear  and  a  ruffling  of  his  curls,  for  Marie 
had  no  doubt  whatever  of  the  nature  of  Manders' 
feeling  for  Biakemore.  If  she  had  only  understood 
herself  half  as  well,  she  might  have  distrusted  this 
exuberance  of  happiness.  There  is  nothing  quite  so 
dangerous  among  the  casualties  of  life  as  the  careless 
joy  of  a  generous  heart.  Selfishness  is  the  moral 
preservative.  Marie  had  not  enough  selfishness  for 
the  simplest  demands  of  self-protection  where  her 
affections  were  engaged.  And  what  matter  ?  After 
all,  we  aphides  on  the  leaves  of  time  vex  our  precious 
brains  overmuch  with  the  machinery  of  the  universe, 
which  goes  on  grinding  planets  to  powder,  mindless  to 
the  fact  that  a  myriad  of  us  perish  with  every  throb 

103 


MANDERS 

of  the  stupendous  engines.  What  if  an  aphis  find 
the  tip  of  a  rose  leaf  sweetened  in  the  sun  a 
whole  world  of  contentment  ?  Why  should  the  aphis 
quarrel  with  the  stars?  Better  to  go  on  drinking 
the  refreshing  juices  of  the  plant  while  the  sun 
permits  it  to  be  green.  That  would  have  been  Marie's 
conclusion  if  she  had  thought  about  the  problem 
at  all. 

Stopping  to  dine  with  Blakemore  was  becoming 
the  evening  habit  of  Marie  and  Manders  now.  Some- 
times after  the  dinner  there  was  music,  for  Blake- 
more  was  a  virtuoso  of  the  'cello,  and  under  his 
instruction  Marie  began  to  play  accompaniments 
with  a  fair  degree  of  merit  in  the  performance. 
They  sang  together  also,  and  whether  they  played  or 
sang,  Manders  would  sit  in  rapt  attention,  his  fancies 
bearing  him  into  such  far  reaches  of  wonder-glowing 
regions  that  the  sudden  coming  back  when  the  music 
ceased  was  a  pain  to  him,  and  he  took  tears  with  him 
into  the  street  for  the  home-going.  Under  these 
influences,  Manders  began  a  curious  development,  a 
nervous  quickening  which  both  Marie  and  Blakemore 
set  down  to  the  credit  of  his  mornings  in  the  Ecole 
Alsacienne.  "  He  is  learning  rapidly,"  they  said,  but 
the  knowledge  coming  to  him  was  not  of  the  things 
gathered  drily  into  school-books.  There  are  other 
islands  than  Patmos,  and  other  seers  than  John,  and 
the  heavens  may  part  as  a  scroll  that  is  rolled 
together  for  the  eyes  of  a  little  child.  What  else 
meant  that  confession  to  Marie  as  they  walked  home 

KM 


MANDERS 

one  night  when  she  teased  him  affectionately  about 
his  tears  and  his  wlence?  What  was  the  matter? 
she  asked.  Should  they  have  no  more  of  the  music 
that  disturbed  him  so  much  ? 

He  answered  her  almost  fiercely,  vehemently  pro- 
testing against  what  he  declared  to  be  a  wicked, 
wicked  thought.  He  frightened  her  with  the  pas- 
sionate incoherence  of  his  rebellion  against  the  idea 
she  had  playfully  suggested.  She  soothed  him  with 
genuine  penitence,  and  with  the  ardour  of  her  own 
sympathies  coaxed  him  into  confidences  that  much 
perplexed  her.  He  talked  excitedly,  with  an 
astonishing  flow  of  words,  gesticulating  in  a  way 
unusual  with  him,  finally  pushing  her  toward  a 
bench  on  which  they  sat  in  the  starlight  as  he 
continued  impetuously, — 

"  Do  you  know  where  I  was  to-night  ?  In  a  great 
house  filled  with  ever  so  many  people,  more  than  I 
ever  saw  before !  Lights  brighter  than  that,"  point- 
ing to  a  street  light,  "  everywhere  !  And  the  people 
were  wonderfully  dressed — all  white  and  shining,  and 
so  happy  1  And  I  was  on  a  great  platform  in  a  sort 
of  room  all  alone !  But  I  wasn't  little,  I  was  a  man, 
and  I  was  singing,  and  there  were  men  down  below 
me  playing  on  all  kinds  of  instruments  such  as  you 
never  saw !  And  while  I  was  singing  the  music 
stopped  and  a  great  noise  arose,  all  the  people  in  the 
crowd  making  it  with  their  hands  and  their  voices ! 
and  all  of  them  looking  at  me  and  smiling !  but  some 
of  them  were  crying,  too.  They  made  so  much  noiae 

IOC 


MANDERS 

that  I  stopped  singing,  for  I  couldn't  hear  myself 
singing !  and  then — and  then  the  lights  all  went  out ! 
Ah!  why  did  the  lights  go  out  to  leave  me  sitting 
in  M.  Walter's  room  crying?" 

A  superstitious  awe  came  upon  Marie  with  the 
recital.  She  could  only  murmur  some  words 
of  endearment  and  hurry  Manders  home,  com- 
forting him  with  the  repeated  assurance  that 
she  was  a  very  naughty  maman  to  have  teased 
him. 

She  faithfully  reported  the  incident  to  Blake- 
more  the  next  afternoon,  adding,  in  a  flutter  of 
eagerness,  to  convince  him  that  it  was  all  very 
curious, — 

"And  you  know  he  has  never  been  in  a  theatre, 
so  he  was  not  remembering  something  he  had  seen 
really ! " 

"I'll  tell  you  what  well  have  to  do,  Marie,  we'll 
have  to  teach  Manders  music.  He  has  it  in  him; 
we'll  bring  it  out." 

Marie  put  out  her  hand  gratefully,  with  the  light 
laughter  of  a  gratified  child,  exclaiming, — 

"How  good  you  are,  Walter!  You  are  like  the 
fairies  who  bring  the  flowers  and  the  sunshine  and 
the  soft  rains — you  make  everyone  happy."  Then 
after  a  moment  her  face  clouded.  "But  I  don't 
know  enough  to  teach  him,  and  you  cannot  spare 
the  time." 

"Never  mind,"  he  answered,  striking  his  finger 
lightly  against  her  dimpled  chin,  "he  shall  have  a 

106 


MANDERS 

teacher  who  shall  come  here  while  you  are  posing, 
and  we'll  take  an  hour  of  playtime  away  from  him. 
He  won't  mind  that." 

"  Oh !  he  will  be  so  happy !  and  I — 111  be  so  happy, 
too!" 


CHAPTER    VIII 

BLAKEMORE,  having  made  careful  inquiry  among 
his  friends,  got  the  address  of  a  Miss  Warley,  the 
daughter  of  an  English  officer  retired  on  half-pay 
who  had  come  with  his  family  to  live  in  Paris  for 
economic  reasons.  He  had  a  son  at  Harrow,  and 
the  daughter,  recommended  as  a  thorough  musician, 
helped  out  the  slender  resources  by  giving  a  few 
lessons  in  a  strictly  private  way.  Miss  Warley  called 
by  appointment  at  Blakemore's  apartments,  accom- 
panied by  the  captain — an  unwarlike,  amiable  gentle- 
man, who  was  at  nice  pains  to  impress  Blakemore 
with  the  fact  that  the  necessity  to  earn  one's  daily 
bread  was  not  incompatible  with  gentility  and  the 
traditions  of  a  family  that  had  excellent  reasons  for 
holding  its  head  respectably  high.  He  made  lead- 
ing inquiries  about  the  prospective  pupil,  and  in 
answer  to  one  of  these  Blakemore  betrayed  the  fact 
that  Madame  Manders  was  a  professional  model. 

Instantly,  as  if  operated  by  a  common  spring, 
the  captain  and  Miss  Warley  rose  to  their  feet, 
their  affable  smiles  disappearing  behind  an  aspect  of 
offended  yet  polite  dignity. 

"In  that  case—"  the  captain  began,  giving  his 
108 


MANDERS 

cane  a  definitive  thrust  against  the  floor,  at  the 
same  time  crooking  his  elbow  in  a  formal  invitation 
to  the  cotton-gloved  hand  of  his  daughter, "  I  think 
we  need  take  up  no  more  of  your  time,  sir." 

Blakemore  hastened  to  interpose  some  pacifying 
explanations.  Madame  Manders  was  a  woman  of  the 
most  exemplary  character,  and  not  at  all  a  model  in 
the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word.  Besides,  the  captain 
doubtless  knew  the  family  to  which  Madame  Manders 
had  the  honour  to  belong,  as  it  was  the  venerable 
and  aristocratic  Kentish  family  whose  great  wealth 
was  its  least  proud  distinction.  It  was  true  that 
the  late  Mr  Edward  Manders  had  fallen  under  the 
disfavour  of  his  family  and  died  estranged  from  them, 
but  that  did  not  in  the  least  detract  from  the  respect- 
ability of  his  son.  As  for  Madame  Manders  herself, 
"  You  yourself  said  but  a  moment  ago,  Captain 
Warley,  that  the  necessity  of  earning  one's  livelihood 
is  not  incompatible  with  gentility.  Madame  Manders 
follows  honourably  an  honourable  vocation,  a  neces- 
sary vocation  if  art  is  to  have  its  noblest  expression ; 
and  I  think,  sir,  we  owe  it  to  art  and  humanity  to 
make  the  profession  of  the  model  as  respectable 
at  least  as  the  models  themselves  are  willing  to 
have  it" 

Captain  Warley  and  bis  daughter  exchanged 
glances.  The  captain  cleared  his  throat  and  released 
a  button  of  his  coat.  Miss  Warley  withdrew  her 
hand  from  her  father's  arm.  There  was  a  moment 
ol  silence,  during  which  Blakemore  stood  expectant. 

I1Q 


MANDERS 

u  Well,  Captain  Warley  ?  " 

"Well,  daughter?"  asked  the  captain,  a  little 
doubtfully. 

"As  you  please,  father,"  replied  the  young  lady,  with 
the  air  of  one  resigned  to  an  alternative.  Blakemore 
thought  Miss  Warley  of  an  age  and  a  plainness  quite 
equal  to  the  guardianship  of  her  austere  virtue. 

"Well,  my  dear,  perhaps  Mr  Blakemore  is  right 
There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  be  as  charit- 
able as  our  neighbours,  and  I  daresay  the  boy  will 
not  be  any  the  less  musical  because  his  mother  is  a 
model.  We  may  as  well  make  the  experiment." 

So  the  music  lessons  began,  Miss  Warley  coming 
three  times  a  week,  to  the  intense  happiness  of  the 
eager  Manders,  and  presently  to  her  own  satisfac- 
tion, for  she  told  her  father  that  the  boy  was  a 
prodigy  so  easy  to  teach  that  he  even  anticipated 
instruction. 

The  summer  passed,  and  the  autumn  was  drifting 
away  from  its  purple  and  golden-leafed  splendour 
into  the  grey  nakedness  of  the  early  winter.  Blake- 
more was  well  along  with  his  second  picture,  one 
he  intended  to  submit  to  the  next  year's  salon,  it 
offered  so  much  in  character  and  "  quality."  Letters 
from  Miss  Storey  in  St  Petersburg  announced  the 
intention  of  Mrs  Storey  to  pass  the  winter  in  Rome 
and  the  southern  parts  of  Italy,  and  Blakemore  had 
in  mind  a  plan  to  join  them  to  make  some  study  of 
the  Italian  masters  as  the  final  throwing  off  of  the 
student's  beret  before  entering  formally  the  respon- 

no 


MANDERS 

sible  life  of  the  veritable  artist.  Manders  had 
already  advanced  to  the  triumphant  stage  of  "  read- 
ing music,"  though  Miss  Warley,  with  a  sensibleness 
not  common  to  her  class,  bewailed  the  fact  that  she 
could  not  "  keep  him  back  enough.  He  reads  so  well 
that  he  wants  to  go  at  pieces  I  am  not  ready  to  have 
him  take."  And  she  distressed  herself,  too,  over  the 
passion  he  had  for  singing. 

"  But  he  has  a  sweet  voice,"  Blakemore  laughingly 
objected.  "  I  love  to  hear  it." 

"  Of  course  you  do,"  Miss  Warley  assented,  in  the 
tone  she  would  have  used  to  rebuke  a  misdemeanour. 
"And  so  do  I.  That  is  the  very  reason  he  should 
not  be  allowed  to  open  his  mouth  for  at  least  ten 
years." 

But  he  only  sang  the  songs  Marie  was  used  to  sing, 
little  songs  a  linnet  might  have  piped  from  the 
hedge;  and  most  of  all  the  one  he  wept  to  hear 
when  i*  first  came  to  him  in  his  mother's  winningly 
melodious  but  untrained  voice, — 

If  the  light  should  go  and  the  roses  fade, 
Aad  earth  grow  cold  and  the  birds  not  sing. 

But  Marie  had  never  sung  it  so.  Marie's  soul  only 
sunned  itself  in  the  shallows  of  emotion. 

One  day  Manders  came  listless  from  the  school  to 
his  music  lesson.  He  sat  inert  at  the  piano,  going 
through  his  task  in  such  a  lifeless,  perfunctory  way 
that  Miss  Warley  chided  him  rather  sharply  for  an 
indolence  that  surprised  her.  Blakemore,  painting 

in 


MANDERS 

in  the  garden,  was  saying  to  Marie,  "A  few  more 
days  and  we'll  call  this  done,"  Marie  smiling  con- 
tent, when  Miss  Warley  oame  to  the  salon  door  and 
called  to  Blakemore. 

"I'm  afraid  Manders  MJ  going  to  be  ill,"  she  said 
anxiously,  as  Blakemore  came  to  her.  Marie  heard, 
her  heart  bounding  with  a  great  fear  as  she  ran 
forward,  white -faced  and  trembling.  She  was 
beside  the  corner  divan,  where  Manders  lay  with 
closed  eyes,  before  the  others.  She  took  his  hands, 
covering  them  and  his  cheeks  with  kisses  as  she 
breathed  out  her  fearful  endearments,  blaming  him 
for  trying  to  frighten  her.  Manders  smiled,  and 
put  his  arm  about  her  neck. 

"  I'm  just  sleepy,  maman ;  that  is  all,"  he  said. 

But  it  was  not  all,  as  the  doctor,  who  came  an  hour 
later,  told  them.  "Typhus,*  he  said  to  Blakemore, 
and  forbade  the  child's  removal  from  the  house. 
Blakemore  gave  up  his  own  room,  a  large  and  airy 
one,  to  Manders  and  Marie,  and  prepared,  with 
Fanchette's  help,  a  sommier  for  himself  in  the 
studio.  After  a  night  or  two  a  nurse  came  in,  and 
the  dressing-room  was  made  to  serve  Marie's  pur- 
pose, the  door  opening  into  the  room  where  Manders 
burned  in  his  music-haunted  delirium. 

Mother  Pugens  brought  such  things  as  were  re- 
quired from  Marie's  rooms  in  the  Rue  St  Jacques, 
and  evinced  so  great  a  solicitude  to  be  helpful  that 
now  and  then  she  was  allowed  to  sit  in  the  sick-room 
for  an  hour  or  two,  watching  and  serving  the  "  pauvre 


MANDERS 

petit  "  she  had  brought  into  the  world,  as  she  assured 
the  nurse  a  thousand  times. 

The  case  did  not  turn  out  as  bad  as  the  doctor 
feared  it  would. 

"  It  is  only  typhoid,"  he  cheerily  informed  Blake- 
more  one  morning,  without  making  it  clear  just  how 
many  degrees  of  favourable  difference  were  reckoned 
between  a  disease  and  its  likeness,  but  his  tone  and 
manner  persuaded  Blakemore  that  the  difference  was 
worth  a  thank-offering.  And  Manders,  too,  was  a 
stout  lad,  showing,  with  his  curls  shorn  away, 
even  manlier  on  his  pillow  than  he  had  in  the 
activities  of  health,  so  that  there  was  a  visible 
something  to  substantiate  the  medical  man's  opinion 
that  the  lad  would  be  "  pulled  through  with  colours 


Pull  him  through  they  did,  though  they  were  five 
weeks  in  the  doing.  There  were  dancing  feathers 
of  snow  in  the  keen  air  when  Manders  —  the  nurse 
and  the  doctor  dismissed  a  week  before  —  came  down 
into  the  warm,  fire-  flushed  salon  for  the  first  after- 
noon jubilee  over  his  convalescence.  Manders  was 
enthroned  upon  cushions,  and  from  every  advan- 
tageous place  and  corner  fresh  flowers  and  green 
plants  sent  him  greetings,  to  which  his  smiles 
made  answer.  A  merry-making,  indeed,  with  Miss 
Warley  end  the  captain  coming  in  for  a  part  of 
it. 

"I  should  have  brought  Mrs  Warley  along,"  said 
the  captain,  semi-confidentially,  to  Blakemore,  abut 

H 


MANDERS 

really  she  wasn't  equal  to  the  exertion."  Then,  in 
a  lower  tone  still,  he  added,  "Peculiar  woman,  Mrs 
Warley;  most  estimable,  but  peculiar.  Proud,  Mr 
Blakemore,  proud  as  Lucifer.  It  is  style  or  nothing 
with  Mrs  Warley,  so  we  quit  London  to  live  among 
these  jabbering  barbarians  for  pride's  sake,  Mr  Blake- 
more.  Ah !  well,  sir,  a  man  who  has  been  one  of 
Her  Majesty's  officers  owes  something  to  his  family. 
Sacrifices  are  salt  for  the  best  of  us,  Mr  Blakemore — 
but  one  doesn't  want  to  become  too  salty." 

The  captain  laughed  heartily  at  this  little  joke.     It 
was  a  favourite  with  him,  because  it  always  sent  his 
spirit  up  where  numberless  good  things  were  stored 
for  repetition ;  and  once  well  started,  the  captain  was 
no  end  of  a  jolly  fellow.     Manders  found  him  im- 
mensely amusing,  he  had  so  many  droll  stories  of 
army  life,  of    which  he  made  himself  the  victim. 
Anecdotes  at  the  expense   of   the   narrator  are  so 
much  more  comical  than  others,  that  the  captain  did 
not  hesitate  to  reverse  the  order  of  facts  if  by  so 
doing  he  could  produce  a  more  resonant  explosion  of 
mirth.    Manders  rewarded  the  captain  prodigally,  and 
the  others  were  so  ready  with  their  small  pence  of 
chuckles  and  titterings  that  the  sunny  old  war-dog 
was  encouraged  to  monopolise  the  occasion,  and- was 
inclined  to  resent  it  as  an  infringement  of  personal 
privilege  when  Miss  Warley  arose  with  the  remark 
that  it  was  time  for  them  to  go.    He  flourished  his 
hand  with  an  airy  gaiety  and  declared  there  was 
plenty  of  time,  protesting  that  his  best  stories  were 

"4 


MANDERS 

to  come.  He  was  willing  to  accept  Blakemore's 
invitation  to  dinner. 

"  You  know  what  mother  will  say  if  we  are  late  to 
our  dinner,"  Miss  Warley  reminded  him,  smiling,  and 
giving  an  eloquent  side  inclination  to  her  head. 

"Ah!  Mr  Blakemore,"  said  the  captain,  in  mock 
dolour  as  he  reluctantly  got  to  his  feet,  "  I  used  to  be 
foolish  enough  to  pity  a  galley  slave.  But  being 
chained  to  the  rowlocks  is  freedom — freedom,  Mr 
Blakemore— compared  with  the  tyranny  of  a  six- 
o'clock  dinner,  served  in  one  course.  Well,  come 
along,  Matilda,  since  we  must  be  slaves." 

Though  he  felt  some  slight  reaction  after  the 
captain  had  gone,  Manders  was  by  no  means  ready 
to  retire  to  his  room.  He  insisted  on  having  his  light 
dinner  at  the  table  with  Blakemore  and  Marie,  and 
afterward  there  must  be  some  music,  it  had  been  so 
long  since  he  had  heard  any.  When  at  last  he  con- 
fessed himself  tired  and  sleepy,  Blakemore  carried 
him  up  the  few  steps  that  led  to  the  half  floor  where 
were  the  studio  and  sleeping-rooms,  and  Marie  put 
him  to  bed. 

"  Don't  stop  the  music,"  he  pleaded,  after  he  had 
been  tucked  into  his  bed.  "I  should  love  to  go  to 
sleep  with  the  music  in  my  ears." 

Fanchette  closed  up  the  house  and  went  up  to 
her  place  in  the  attic  while  they  were  playing  and 
singing  together.  Some  strange  spell  was  in  the 
music  to-night.  There  were  whispers  and  touches 
and  soft,  seductive  laughter  in  the  air,  a  mysterious 

"5 


MANDERS 

breath  from  the  flowers,  and  an  eerie  murmur  in 
mischievous  winds  beating  lightly  at  the  casements. 
Once  Marie  looked  from  the  piano  at  Blakemore, 
who  was  playing  the  'cello  absently,  his  eyes  in- 
tently fixed  on  her. 

"Yon  are  not  playing  in  time  with  me,"  she  said 
laughingly. 

"I  wasn't  thinking,"  said  Blakemore,  hurriedly, 
drawing  the  'cello  closer  between  his  knees.  "Let 
us  begin  again." 

She  turned  back  a  page,  and  felt  her  cheeks  flush, 
wondering  what  caused  it ;  and  her  fingers  seemed 
to  touch  the  keys  tremulously  as  she  played,  falter- 
ing presently  and  striking  false  notes.  She  stopped 
at  length,  saying,  as  she  smiled  half -apologetically, 
half-shyly, — 

*I  don't  believe  I  can  play  any  more." 

*  You  are  tired,"  he  said,  placing  the  'cello  in  the 
corner  against  the  piano. 

"  No,  I  don't  feel  tired,"  she  answered. 

"Nervous,  perhaps." 

"You  know  I  haven't  any  nerves,"  she  smiled. 
"I  think  it  is  happiness.  Happiness  is  very  dis- 
turbing sometimes,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  he  assented,  something  like  a  sigh  in  his 
voice,  yet  something  of  eagerness  too.  "There  is 
nothing  so  disturbing  as  happiness,  sometimes.  Why 
do  you  feel  so  happy  ? " 

41  Because  Manders  is  well  again,  I  suppose. 
Doesn't  that  make  you  happy  too  ? " 

116 


MANDERS 

"Yes,  that  makes  me  happy  too." 

He  stood  beside  her.  A  lock  of  her  hair,  slipped 
from  the  coil,  curled  forward  along  her  neck.  He 
took  it  between  his  fingers,  but  with  a  little  laugh 
she  pulled  away  from  him  and  tucked  it  in  place 
again,  saying  that  was  a  sign  of  bedtime.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  she  had  never  been  so  pretty. 

"Isn't  it  getting  late?"  she  asked. 

"Not  yet  eleven,"  he  answered,  looking  at  his 
watch. 

"Oh!  but  that  is  late  for  us,  nowadays,  you 
know." 

They  lighted  their  candles  and  turned  out  the 
salon  lights,  going  up  the  steps  together.  He 
went  in  with  her  to  look  at  Manders,  who  slept 
soundly,  a  smile  on  his  lips,  one  hand  just  above 
the  cover  holding  the  rose  he  had  taken  to  bed 
with  him. 

They  stood  regarding  the  child  for  a  moment, 
Blakemore  with  his  hand  on  Marie's  shoulder.  She 
looked  up  into  the  face  above  her,  whispering, — 

"Is  he  not  beautiful?" 

Blakemore  drew  her  a  little  toward  the  door,  then 
paused  irresolutely.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  her. 

"  Good-night ! "  he  said,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Good-night  1 "  she  responded,  putting  her  hand  in 
his.  He  held  her  hand,  making  no  movement  to  go. 
His  clasp  seemed  feverish  to  her.  She  looked  at  him 
inquiringly.  He  was  strange  to  her  to-night 

«  What  is  it  ? "  she  asked. 
"I 


MANDERS 

He  made  no  response,  but,  still  holding  her  hand, 
he  led  the  way  across  the  hall  to  the  studio  door. 
He  paused  after  taking  hold  of  the  knob. 

"Are  you  sleepy?"  he  asked,  as  if  seeking  an 
excuse  for  himself. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  Why  ?  Are  you  going  to  work 
at  this  hour  ? " 

"  No ;  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said  heavily. 

They  entered  the  studio,  he  closing  the  door  behind 
them. 

An  hour  later  Manders  cried  out  in  his  sleep — a 
cry  of  terror. 

"  Maman ! " 

Marie  heard  him,  and,  frightened,  came  running 
from  the  studio,  a  robe  caught  hastily  around  her 
shoulders. 

She  flung  herself  upon  her  knees  at  the  bedside 
of  the  sleeping  child,  her  tears  raining  upon  his 
face. 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,  Edouard,  my  little  one !  Forgive 
me!  forgive  me!"  she  sobbed,  reaching  to  press  his 
cheek  with  her  hand.  The  child  awoke,  knew  her, 
and  put  out  an  arm  to  clasp  her  neck. 

"Oh,  maman,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  have  had  such  a 
dream!  A  great  river  was  bearing  you  away  from 
me — a  great,  swift  river,  and  you  were  in  the  midst 
of  it!  But  I  ran  along  on  the  side  calling  to  you, 
and  I  knew  you  must  hear  me  and  come  back  I  It 
was  a  foolish  dream,  was  it  not,  maman  ? " 

But  Marie  wept  for  the  realness  of  the  dream. 
til 


CHAPTER   IX 

BLAKEMORE  came  down  to  his  coffee  in  a  travelling 
suit  next  morning,  and  bearing  a  hand-bag. 

"  Is  monsieur  going  away  ? "  asked  Fanchette, 
marked  disapproval  in  her  tone.  She  was  accus- 
tomed to  forewarning  of  these  goings,  and  she  thought 
coffee  and  rolls  an  insufficient  foundation  for  a  rail- 
way journey,  however  short. 

"Yes;  I  am  going  to  London  for  three  or  four 
days.  Send  the  concierge  for  a  fiacre" 

"  But  shall  I  fry  an  egg  for  monsieur  ?  or  make  an 
omelette  ?  It  is  very  indiscreet  to  tempt  Providence 
with  an  empty  stomach  when  one  journeys  by  train, 
but  to  go  to  sea  that  way  is  unheard  of,  monsieur." 

"I  shall  breakfast  at  Calais,  Fanchette.  I  want 
nothing  now." 

Fanchette  started,  grumbling,  toward  the  door  to 
order  the  cab.  As  she  was  going  out,  Blakemore 
called  to  her, — 

"  Have  you  seen  madame  this  morning  ?  " 

"In  her  room,  monsieur.  She  had  me  serve  her 
coffee  there."  Then,  coming  nearer  to  him  and  speak- 
ing in  a  tone  of  querulous  concern,  she  added, — 


MANDERS 

"  I  don't  believe  the  poor  dear  remembered  to  put 
herself  to  bed  at  all  last  night  Her  bed  had  not  been 
touched,  and  I  found  her  on  the  floor  with  her  head 
on  the  little  one's  bed.  It  is  all  very  well,  monsieur, 
for  mothers  to  be  happy  when  their  little  ones  get  well 
after  a  battle  with  death,  but  when  it  comes  to—" 

"  Never  mind,  Fanchette,  do  as  I  bade  you." 

Fanchette  became  suspicious  of  her  eara  It  was 
something  new  for  Monsieur  Blakemore  to  speak 
irritably — but  to  lapse  from  compassion  at  the  same 
time !  The  old  domestic  stared  at  him.  She  had  not 
heard  aright. 

"  Monsieur  has  said —  ?  " 

"  Send  the  concierge  for  the  fiacre." 

Fanchette  went  out  bewildered. 

When,  at  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she 
returned,  to  say  that  the  cab  was  waiting,  Blakemore 
handed  her  a  note. 

"Give  that  to  madame,"  he  said,  rather  more 
gently  than  he  had  spoken  before,  Fanchette  thought, 
"  and  you  are  to  take  orders  from  her  in  my  absence. 
I'll  be  back  before  the  end  of  the  week." 

He  went  out,  carrying  the  bag,  and  Fanchette 
followed  him  to  the  pavement,  vainly  ransacking 
her  feeble  old  brain  for  some  reasonable  explanation 
of  the  master's  unwonted  behaviour. 

Marie  kept  her  room  until  the  afternoon  and  then 
came  down  into  the  salon  with  Manders,  and  seemed 
to  cling  to  the  child  as  if  she  were  the  one  in  need  of 
comforting  and  reviving  attention.  She  demanded 

120 


MANDERS 

of  the  child  &  thousand  reassurances  of  his  love  for 
her.  She  seemed  fearful  of  being  a  moment  beyond 
touch  of  him,  and  if  he  fell  into  one  of  the  grave 
reveries  so  habitual  with  him,  she  interpreted  his 
silence  into  a  reproach,  and  with  an  extravagance  of 
half-tearful  follies  won  him  back  to  babbling  tender- 
ness. When  he  stroked  his  hand  over  her  face 
and  called  her  "good  little  maman"  in  a  quaintly 
patronising  way,  she  overwhelmed  him  with  grateful 
caresses,  smiling  at  him  through  tears  that  she  told 
him  were  only  the  words  of  happiness  which  her 
tongue  didn't  know  how  to  speak. 

"  My  heart  is  so  full,  Edouard,  that  it  would  burst 
if  I  couldn't  cry  a  little — full  of  love  for  you, 
dearie !  There  isn't  anything  there  but  love,  dearie ! 
There  isn't  room  for  anything  else.  You  couldn't 
think  me  wicked,  could  you,  little  one?  You 
wouldn't  believe  that  I  could  be  wicked!  Eh,  my 
child  ?  You  couldn't  believe  it  if  I  should  tell  you  so 
myself !  Could  you,  dearie  ?  Could  you,  could  you, 
little  one  ? " 

He  laughed,  and  struck  her  cheek  with  his  open 
hand,  playfully  punishing  her. 

"  Que  tu  es  be"te ! "  was  his  reply.  "  One  must  not 
cry  when  one  is  happy ;  that  is  for  the  sad  to  do. 
I  will  not  hav«  my  pretty  maman's  eyes  like  fish 
ponds."  He  dried  away  her  tears  with  the  ends  of 
the  silk  scarf  loosely  knotted  at  her  throat,  amused 
by  the  performance,  telling  her  it  served  her  right 
if  he  had  spoiled  her  finery. 


121 


MANDERS 

He  wished  her  to  sing  for  him.  Not  to-day,  she 
said.  And  so  the  next  day,  and  the  day  following, 
and  the  day  after  that.  Then  a  letter  came  for 
Blakemore,  postmarked  Florence,  the  superscription 
having  that  angular  irregularity  which  Marie  had 
already  learned  to  identify  with  Miss  Storey's  writing. 
Several  letters  addressed  in  this  way  had  come  in  the 
course  of  the  past  six  months,  one  or  two  while 
Manders  was  ill,  and  Marie  had  felt  no  sort  of  interest 
in  them,  save  for  the  pleasure  Blakemore  seemed 
to  get  from  reading  them.  But  she  held  this  one 
long  in  her  hand,  her  eyes  studying  the  address 
through  a  mist  of  tears,  as  if  some  vital  import  were 
in  each  separate  letter.  She  put  it  on  the  table  at 
last,  address  downward,  and  placed  beside  it  a  small 
vase,  in  the  slender  stem  of  which  she  put  a  single 
rose,  choosing  a  white  one.  She  brushed  the  mist 
from  her  eyes  with  her  finger  tips,  and  though  a  sigh 
trembled  from  her  lips,  a  smile  that  was  hardly  a 
smile  came  with  it.  Manders  was  half  lying  on  the 
divan,  looking  at  the  pictures  of  a  comic  paper  Miss 
Warley  had  brought  him.  Marie  went  to  him,  and 
pulling  down  the  paper  behind  which  his  face  was 
hidden,  smiled  at  him. 

"  Shall  I  sing  for  you  now  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Will  you  ? "  cried  Manders,  springing  up. 

"Yes." 

She  kissed  him,  but  not  in  the  impassioned  way  of 
these  past  few  days,  and  went  to  the  piano.  Manders 
was  too  pleased  to  notice  that  there  was  something 


MANDERS 

new,  something  strangely  prophetic  in  the  firmer 
tones  of  her  voice  to-night. 

"  You  are  the  old  maman  again,"  he  said  approv- 
ingly, as  they  went  up  the  stairs  to  bed.  She  made 
no  response,  knowing  it  otherwise. 

"  Sit  down  by  me,"  he  urged,  after  he  had  got  into 
bed.  "  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

She  complied,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
holding  one  of  his  hands  in  hers. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  was  thinking  while  you 
were  singing  ?  That  is  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you ; 
but  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  you  as  it  was.  Isn't  it  droll 
that  you  think  so  many  things  that  you  don't  know 
how  to  say  ?  It  isn't  because  I  am  little,  is  it  ?  You 
think  things  that  way,  too,  don't  you,  maman? 
I  knew  you  did.  I  suppose  God  makes  it  that  way 
on  purpose.  Don't  you  ?  Well,  I  was  thinking  that 
there  was  a  little  bird  singing  in  a  cage  with  the 
door  open.  And  the  little  bird,  singing  all  the  time, 
would  hop  down  to  the  door  of  its  cage,  and  sit  on 
the  place  that  goes  across  under  the  door,  you  know, 
but  it  wouldn't  go  out  of  the  cage,  though  the  trees 
were  just  beyond,  with  other  birds  calling  among  the 
branches.  When  I  was  listening  I  knew  what  the  bird 
was  singing,  but  I  don't  remember  it  now.  That  is  very 
funny,  too,  for  I  thought  all  the  time  how  interesting 
it  was.  By-and-by  the  little  bird  went  back  to  the 
swinging  ring  in  the  top  of  its  cage,  and  then  someone 
came  and  held  up  his  hand  before  the  door  of  the  cage 
and  coaxed  the  bird.  But  it  went  on  singing  and 


MANDE3S 

didn't  come  down.  Then  the  hand  reached  into  the 
cage  and  took  the  bird,  very  gently.  But  it 
frightened  the  bird  so  that  it  stopped  singing  and 
crouched  down  in  the  hand,  trembling,  and  with 
its  mouth  open.  The  hand  held  the  bird  for  a  long 
time;  and  the  man  talked  to  the  bird,  and  put  it 
against  his  cheek,  and  closed  its  little  mouth  with 
his  lips,  and  the  bird  stopped  trembling  and  was 
very  still  Then  the  hand  put  the  bird  back  into 
the  cage,  but  it  didn't  sing ;  it  just  tucked  its  head 
down  into  its  feathers,  and  sat  still,  very  still.  And 
do  you  know  what  I  was  thinking  ?  I  was  thinking 
what  a  pity  it  would  be  if  the  little  bird  never  sang 
again.  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  pity  ? " 

"Yes,  it  would  be  a  pity,  dearie.  J  am  sure  the 
little  bird  will  sing  again.  It  will  not  do  for  the 
birds  to  stop  singing ;  the  world  needs  all  its  music. 
Sleep,  dearie,  and  dream  that  the  little  bird  has  sung." 

In  the  morning  there  was  a  telegram  from  Blake- 
more,  answer  paid ;  it  asked  the  simple  question, — 

"  Shall  we  go  on  with  the  picture  ? " 

Marie  answered, "  Yes." 

But  after  Fanchette  had  gone  to  the  bureau  with 
the  message,  Marie  went  up  to  her  room  and  began 
getting  Manders's  and  her  things  in  readiness  to  be 
carried  back  to  the  Rue  St  Jacques.  Manders  came 
in  when  the  work  was  nearly  done. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ? "  he  asked,  a  look  of  dis- 
may coming  into  his  face,  for  he  saw  very  well  what 
was  doing. 

184 


MANDERS 

"  Getting  ready  to  go  home,"  she  replied  cheerily. 
"  Won't  you  be  glad  to  be  in  our  own  little  place 
again  ? " 

"  No,"  he  answered  conclusively,  u  I  am  not  ready 
to  go.  L  like  it  better  here ;  besides,  I'm  not  all  well 
yet,  and  I  need  the  piano." 

Marie  argued  with  him,  using  as  persuasive  allies 
of  her  imperfect  reasoning  a  world  of  blandishments 
and  caresses,  for  Manders  was  obstinately  opposed 
to  a  course  that  seemed  to  him  much  too  capricious. 
To  her  suggestion  that  they  had  no  right  to  impose 
on  Mr  Blakemore's  kindness  now  that  Manders  was 
quite  able  to  be  about  again,  the  lad  retorted  with 
liveliness, — 

"  ML  Walter  likes  us  very  much.  He  likes  to  have 
us  here ;  and  it  isn't  right  to  go  away  and  leave  him 
when  he  isn't  here." 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated,  he  was  so  deeply 
disturbed  by  the  thought  of  quitting  surroundings 
so  much  more  delightful  than  any  he  remembered 
to  have  known.  After  all,  was  not  her  cup  in  the 
child's  hands  ?  Should  she  not  drink  of  its  waters 
for  his  sake,  be  they  sweet  or  bitter  to  the  taste  ? 
Was  not  his  happiness  and  well-being  to  be  her  chief 
consideration  ?  She  had  a  dim  perception  of  self- 
surrender  as  the  victory  of  maternity,  even  if  it  had 
to  do  with  sackcloth  and  ashes.  There  might  have 
been  an  end  to  the  packing,  for  she  was  saying  to 
herself,  "  It  would  be  for  Edouard's  sake.  I  must 
not  take  anything  away  from  him."  But  Mandera, 


MANDERS 

thinking  he  had  triumphed  over  her,  that  she  yielded 
to  his  will  as  always  she  had  yielded,  put  his  arm 
about  her  neck  and  said  with  quaintly  patronising 
playfulness, — 

"  And  you  want  to  stay,  too,  don't  you  ?  For  you 
love  M.  Walter  just  as  much  as  I  do, — is  it  not  so, 
pretty  laaman  ? " 

She  took  his  face  between  her  two  hands,  looking 
into  his  eyes  so  pleadingly  that  he  felt  a  fear  as  if 
in  some  way  she  needed  his  protection. 

"You  love  maman  very  much,  do  you  not,  my 
dearie?  Better  than  you  love  anyone  else  in  all 
the  world  ? " 

"  You  know  I  do ! "  he  cried ;  "  better  than  all  the 
world!" 

"It  is  for  my  sake,  then,  that  I  would  go  back  to 
our  own  little  place.  Shall  we  go,  my  child  ?  " 

"  Come,  let  us  go  now,  maman ! " 

Blakemore  returned  the  next  evening.  He  had 
gone  away  in  a  somewhat  Quixotic  spirit,  inspired 
by  the  possibly  fallacious  theory  that  certain  pro- 
blems work  out  best  when  left  to  themselves.  Once 
in  London,  with  no  definite  object  to  occupy  his 
attention,  he  began  to  reproach  himself  with  hav- 
ing taken  the  most  cowardly  course  open  to  him. 
He  had  not  thought  of  his  action  in  that  light. 
It  is  probable  he  would  have  taken  the  next  train 
back  had  he  not  met  Mr  Mendenhall  in  a  theatre 
lobby  between  the  acts  of  the  play.  They  went 
up  to  the  smoking-room  and  sat  on  one  of  the 

126 


MANDERS 

lounges,  willing  to  miss  an  act  of  a  familiar 
tragedy.  Mr  Mendenhal!  had  gone  to  Russia  with 
the  Storeys,  but  had  been  compelled  to  return  to 
England  just  as  they  were  starting  for  Italy.  He 
had  half  promised  to  rejoin  them  in  Rome,  and 
keenly  regretted  that  family  affairs  were  keeping 
him  in  London  at  a  time  when  the  town  was  so 
beastly  dull  and  the  weather  so  nasty.  Mr  Menden- 
hall  was  clearly  in  ignorance  of  the  fact  that  Blake- 
more  had  any  claim  upon  the  special  consideration  of 
Miss  Storey,  of  whom  he  spoke  in  terms  of  such  easy 
familiarity  as  to  convince  Blakemore  that  Mrs  Storey 
at  least  had  been  zealous  to  give  definite  colour  to  the 
friendship. 

"  You  know  they  have  been  in  Venice  for  the  past 
three  weeks  and  have  just  gone  to  Florence." 

No,  Blakemore  did  not  know  it,  and  he  secretly 
rebelled  against  the  better  information  of  this  well- 
appearing  gentleman,  who  complacently  sipped  his 
wine  with  such  an  air  of  unconscious  superiority. 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  invited  to  join  them  in  Italy,"  he 
said  equivocally. 

"  Perhaps  we  can  go  together,  if  you  are  not  going 
immediately.  Have  you  fixed  on  a  time  ? " 

"No,  not  definitely."  Indeed,  he  had  not  very 
seriously  considered  the  matter.  He  had  intended 
keeping  at  work  until  his  picture  should  be  finished. 
Though  he  had  not  been  idle  in  other  matters,  the  six 
weeks'  interruption  of  a  zealous  particular  ambition 
made  a  serious  difference  with  him.  The  complet- 

127 


MANDERS 

ing  of  the  painting  was  problematic,  now  that  days 
with  the  necessary  sunshine  were  to  be  few  and 
uncertain.  He  had  an  eagerness  to  tell  Florence 
that  the  thing  was  done  and  well  done,  too.  He 
felt  that  this  was  in  some  manner  vital  to  his 
relations  with  her.  But  his  mind  entertained  a 
disturbing  premonition  on  Marie's  account.  He 
fancied,  without  having  clearly  reasoned  the  ques- 
tion, that  she  might  not  care  to  pose  for  him  any 
more.  Women,  he  thought,  have  an  awkward  way 
of  making  unreasonable  decisions  at  inopportune 
times.  But  would  such  a  decision  on  her  part  be 
altogether  unreasonable? 

"I  think  I  could  get  away  in  a  fortnight,"  said 
Mendenhall,  breaking  in  upon  Blakemore's  thoughts. 
"  How  would  that  suit  you  ? " 

"  I'll  tell  you  in  a  day  or  two.  I'll  have  to  write 
to  Paris.  You  see  I  am  in  the  midst  of  some  work 
that  I  ought  to  finish,"  he  said,  half-apologetic- 
ally,  thinking  of  his  quandary. 

He  began  a  letter  to  Marie  the  next  day,  but  was 
dissatisfied  with  the  wording  of  it  He  was  not  in  the 
mood,  and  he  wasted  several  days  without  getting 
into  the  mood.  London  is  not  without  its  diversions 
for  an  idle  man.  At  last  he  took  refuge  from  the 
perplexities  of  composition  in  the  convenience  of  the 
telegraph,  and  wired  his  question  to  Marie.  Her 
prompt  affirmative  reply  caused  a  revulsion  of  his 
sentiments,  such  is  the  fatuity  of  man's  moral  nature. 
He  had  felt  that  he  owed  reparation  to  Marie  in  a 

128 


MANDERS 

self -devoted  sort  of  way.  He  had  arraigned  himself 
before  a  stern  judgment,  that  found  him  culpable 
without  extenuating  circumstances;  but  now,  with 
this  submissive  telegram  in  his  hand,  he  began  to 
persuade  himself  that  an  offence  so  readily  condoned 
was  not  an  offence  at  all,  that  he  had  given  undue 
importance  to  a  commonplace  incident,  and  he  con- 
cluded with  a  sense  of  disappointment  that  there 
was  really  nothing  to  prevent  his  going  to  Italy  as 
soon  as  Mr  HendenhaJl  pleased.  He  sent  a  note  to 
that  effect  to  Mendenhall's  club,  and  booked  for  the 
morning  expresa 

It  was  in  this  restored  and  philosophical  peace  of 
mind  that  he  returned  to  Paris,  and  drove  to  the 
Rue  Denfert-Rochereau,  prepared  for  an  indulgent  if 
tearful  welcome.  He  let  himself  into  the  house,  and 
found  old  Fanchette  pottering  about  the  rooms  in  a 
final  supervision  before  taking  herself  off  to  bed.  He 
asked  for  Marie. 

"Ah,  la!  Madame  has  been  gone  these  thirty 
hours.  Bundled  up  to  the  last  shred  and  ran  away 
as  soon  as  she  thought  monsieur  was  coming.  Mon 
Dieu  !  I  haven't  an  idea  why.  It  was  not  the  way 
we  did  in  the  days  when  I  was  worth  a  sweetheart. 
You  wouldn't  have  caught  me  running  away  from 
Antoine,  I  can  tell  yoa !  I  always  took  my  mass 
with  a  pinch  of  the  devil,  and  I'm  sixty-eight  if  I 
have  lived  a  minute — and  I  hope  monsieur  does  not 
think  that  my  bones  creak  yet." 

Marie  gone  made  a  difference  in  his  reflections. 
I 


MANDERS 

i 

He  rather  resented  being  cheated  of  the  opportunity 
to  go  through  with  the  scene  he  had  rehearsed  in  the 
cab  on  the  way  from  the  station.  He  had  pictured 
himself  in  the  flattering  attitude  of  a  consoling 
guardian,  but  this  unforeseen  stratagem,  for  so  he 
regarded  it,  at  once  disconcerted  and  irritated  him, 
throwing  him  again  on  the  defensive,  and  at  a  dis- 
advantage. He  sat  down  to  a  bite  of  something  to 
eat  with  a  sense  of  injury  done  him,  and  his  reflec- 
tions were  not  simplified  when  he  discovered  Miss 
Storey's  letter,  left  face  downward  on  the  salon  card- 
table,  with  a  withered  rose  sentry-like  above  it.  He 
fumbled  with  the  letter  some  moments,  turning  it 
over  and  over,  restrained  from  opening  it  by  an 
annoying  sense  of  unworthiness,  and  finally  put  it  in 
his  pocket  without  breaking  the  seal.  He  took  the 
rose  from  the  vase,  some  of  its  petals  falling  as  he  did 
BO,  smelled  of  it,  found  it  unf ragrant,  made  a  movement 
to  throw  it  into  the  fire,  and  then  impulsively  thrust 
it  into  the  pocket  with  the  letter.  The  imbecility  of 
this  action  struck  him  and  he  laughed  at  himself,  but 
he  left  the  rose  leaves  where  they  were.  It  had  been 
his  habit  when  restless  or  troubled  to  comfort  him- 
self with  his  'cello.  He  reached  for  the  instrument, 
and,  turning  off  the  gas,  began  playing  in  the  fire- 
light. Soon  he  drifted  unconsciously  into  the  ballet 
music  of  Gluck's  "Orphe"e,"  one  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite gems  of  elegy  in  the  range  of  passionate 
music,  a  veritable  balsam  to  melancholy.  The 
strains  entered  into  his  soul  and  possessed  it  The 

130 


MANDERS 

notes  took  words,  and  he  seemed  to  hear  Orpheus 
singing:— 

M  O  toi,  doux  objet  de  ma  flamme, 
Toi  seule  7  peux  calmer  le  trouble  de  mon  ame ! " 

He  stopped  in  the  midst  of  his  playing,  put  on  his 
hat  and  coat,  and  went  out,  following  the  winding 
way  to  the  apartment  in  the  Rue  St  Jacques.  The 
concierge  had  not  yet  closed  the  door,  and  he  mounted 
without  question  to  Marie's  ttage.  He  pulled  the 
bell-rope  and  waited.  Presently  Marie  came  and 
spoke  through  the  closed  door. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  " 

"It  is  I— Walter." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  he  took  hold  of 
the  knob  expectantly. 

"  I  cannot  see  you  to-night,"  she  said  then  quietly. 

M  But  I  must  speak  with  you  1  I  have  something 
to  say  to  you  ! "  he  urged. 

"  Come  in  the  morning.     Good-night ! " 

He  heard  her  retiring  footsteps,  and  tapped  on  the 
panel,  pleading  for  just  a  word ;  but  an  inner  door 
closed,  and  he  knew  that  Marie  had  shut  herself  into 
the  room  where  she  and  Manders  slept. 


MOTHEB  PUGENS,  taught  by  varied  experience  and  a 
certain  shrewdness  of  observation  to  measure  and 
weigh  practical  values  with  worldly  accuracy,  did  not 
by  any  means  approve  Marie's  flouting  01  Providence 
in  the  guise  of  fortune.  Her  tenet  of  being  was  to 
"  take  the  goods  the  gods  provide  ye  "  without  argu- 
ment, a  doctrine  of  belief  neither  original  with  nor 
confined  to  Mother  Pugens  and  her  class.  In  her 
opinion,  as  in  ifiat  of  others  who  have  found  that 
scruples  of  conscience  but  poorly  offset  ease  of  circam- 
etances,  fine  gold  was  much  more  to  be  desired  than 
the  judgments  of  the  Lord,  an  opinion  she  fortified 
with  the  excellent  proverb  that  a  bird  in  the  hand  is 
more  precious  than  several  in  the  bush.  She  had  con- 
templated with  many  approving  nods  of  the  head,  and 
some  sound,  if  homely,  scraps  of  philosophy,  what  she 
believed  to  be  Marie's  progressive  steps  in  wisdom, 
for  of  course  Mother  Pugens  had  not  been  credulous 
enough  to  think  the  recent  manage  in  the  Rue 
Denfert-Bochereau  a  study  in  Platonism.  It  was 
therefore  something  much  akin  to  chagrin  that 
oppressed  her  spirit  when  Marie  and  Manders  came 
trooping  back,  bag  and  baggage,  to  the  miserable 

13* 


MANDERS 

conditions,  comparatively  speaking,  of  the  Rue  St 
Jacques.  Dismay  and  solicitude  expressed  themselves 
in  all  the  convolutions  of  her  generous  person,  and  it 
is  only  proper  to  say  that  she  had  a  genuine  sense 
of.  compassion  for  the  folly  which  could  so  blind 
itself  to  opportunity.  She  renewed  with  enlarge- 
ments the  wholesome  advice  she  had  given  Mane  in 
the  first,  days  of  her  widowhood,  only  her  advice  now 
took  the  form  of  remonstrance.  It  was  a  thing 
greatly  to  be  censured  that  a  young  woman,  with  her 
own  and  a  child's  future  to  think  of,  should  de- 
liberately throw  away  the  advantages  she  had  been 
lucky  enough  to  secure. 

"For  my  part,  I  don't  know  what  you  can  be 
thinking  of !  You  are  much  to  blame,  my  dear,  for 
snatching  the  bread  out  of  your  boy's  mouth,  to  say 
nothing  of  tearing  the  clothes  off  your  own  back. 
Fruit  does  not  always  hang  on  the  branches  that  are 
right  within  reach,  let  me  tell  you.  Ill  not  deny 
that  a  pretty  young  thing  like  you  may  find  apples 
for  the  picking ;  but  my  girl  Lizette  knew  very  well 
what  she  was  talking  about  when  she  said  it  is  not 
wise  to  let  go  of  one  thing  until  you  have  got  your 
other  hand  on  something  better.  Young  people  will 
have  their  quarrels,  my  dear,  but  don't  be  a  fool. 
Make  up  your  difference  with  a  good  grace,  say  I, 
and  let  the  Old  Nick  get  the  worst  of  it  Take  a 
friend's  advice,  my  dear — go  back  before  he  knows 
you  have  run  away." 

Marie  made  no  offer  to  interrupt.  She  shrank 
133 


MANDERS 

into  silence  tinder  the  consciousness  that  she  had 
abandoned  the  right  to  rebuke  Mother  Pugens  or 
to  recoil  from  comparison  with  Lizette.  When,  how- 
ever, the  old  woman,  believing  that  she  had  made  an 
irresistible  plea,  asked  beamingly, — 

"  Well,  what  do  you  say,  my  dear  ?  " 

Marie  answered, — 

"There  has  been  no  quarrel,  Mother  Pugens. 
There  has  been  nothing  to  quarrel  about.  Edouard 
was  sick,  and  I  stayed  where  I  could  care  for  him. 
He  is  well  now,  and  we  have  come  home.  That  is 
all  there  is  to  it." 

"Then  the  more  fool  you,  my  dear,"  said  the 
other,  with  a  sceptical  wobbling  of  the  head,  and 
took  herself  off,  wisely  muttering. 

Blakemore  called  half  an  hour  after  one  of  these 
missionary  visits  of  Mother  Pugens.  Marie  received 
him  in  a  manner  so  friendly  and  frank  that  he  was  at 
once  reassured.  She  suffered  him  to  kiss  her  cheek, 
and  was  passive  to  the  caress  of  his  arm  about  her 
shoulder,  but  she  made  no  responsive  gesture. 

"  You  forgive  me  ? "  he  whispered,  lest  Manders 
should  hear  him  in  the  other  room. 

"I  have  nothing  to  forgive,"  she  answered,  her 
eyes  calmly  looking  into  his. 

"Then  you  do  love  me  a  little?"  he  asked, 
betrayed  into  the  question  by  his  surprise. 

"  Ah !  yes ;  I  love  you.  I  love  you."  Just  a 
tremble  in  the  voice,  as  if  a  sigh  or  a  sob  had  started 
and  been  mastered ;  just  a  quiver  of  the  eyelids,  as  if 


MANDERS 

they  were  of  a  mind  to  close  down  over  the  calm, 
grey-blue  eyes ;  otherwise  a  very  placid,  emotionless 
answer. 

"Then  why  did  you  leave  me?  " 

She  pointed  to  the  other  room,  the  door  between 
being  closed. 

"  For  his  sake — and  for  yours." 

"It  is  for  both  our  aakes  that  you  should  have 
stayed." 

She  smiled,  going  from  him,  and  moving  a  chair 
forward  for  him.  She  sat  down  on  the  sommier. 

"I  have  told  Edouard  you  were  coming.  He  is 
waiting  in  there  till  I  call  him.  I  wanted  to  talk 
with  you  first.  I  shall  not  say  easily  what  I  want 
to  say,  for  you  know  I  am  not  wise.  But  I  have 
been  thinking  it  over  and  over,  and  perhaps  you  will 
be  able  to  understand  me.  But  you  must  not  say 
anything  while  I  am  trying  to  tell  you,  or  I  shall  get 
confused,  and  then  it  would  all  go  from  me  and  you 
would  not  know  what  I  so  much  want  you  to  know." 

He  made  a  movement  toward  her. 

"No  need  of  saying  anything,  Marie;  we  under- 
stand each  other  as  it  ia" 

She  checked  him  with  the  uplifting  of  her  hand. 

a  You  must  wait  until  I  have  told  you." 

"Yes,  I'll  let  you  tell  me."  He  sat  back  in  the 
chair. 

There  was  a  brief  pause,  as  if  she  were  getting  her 
thoughts  in  order,  not  quite  sure  of  their  beginning 
or  sequence.  For  all  she  seemed  so  self-possessed, 

135 


MANDERS 

Blakcmore  felt  that  she  had  never  been  quite  BO 
much  in  need  of  the  comforting  touch  of  a  friendly 
hand.  But  he  would  first  let  her  have  her  way  in 
this  tender  little  comedy  of  troubled  love.  There 
should  be  self-upbraidings  and  tears,  and  reproaches 
too ;  and  then,  strong  arms  and  consolation. 

"  What  do  you  call  dbdnist  ?  "  she  asked  presently. 

"  Cabinet-maker,"  answered  Blakemore. 

"  My  father  was  a  cabinet-maker  in  Marseilles,  and 
we  were  very  poor."  She  spoke  as  if  she  were  con- 
tinuing a  story  well  begun.  "  That  is  why  my  mother 
took  me  for  a  model  to  the  artists  when  I  was  not  so 
old  as  Edouard.  I  have  always  been  a  model.  That 
is  why  I  know  so  little.  I  was  always  a  model  for 
the  nude.  That  is  why  I  never  thought  it  anything 
until — until  Edouard  made  me  think  of  it.  My 
mother  died,  and  after  a  time  my  father.  Then  an 
artist  brought  me  to  Paris.  I  was  not  twelve  yet, 
Everyone  took  care  of  me.  When  I  was  sixteen  I 
was  a  favourite  model  in  the  schools.  M.  Manders 
came  with  a  friend  to  the  Monier  Academy  one  day 
and  saw  me.  I  didn't  care  for  him  at  first,  and  never 
listened  to  him.  But  after  a  time  we  were  married. 
For  a  long  time, — two  years,  three  years,  I  don't 
know, — I  did  not  know  what  I  had  done — he  was  too 
kind  to  tell  me — but  Mother  Pugens  told  me.  He 
was  a  gentleman,  and  I  had  disgraced  him,  ruined 
him.  I  was  a  model.  I  don't  know  why  that  made 
a  difference,  but  because  he  married  me  his  family 
disowned  him,  and  then — you  know  what  happened." 

136 


Her  hands  were  over  her  face,  arid  tears  trickled 
between  her  fingers. 

"  It  was  no  fault  of  yours,"  Blakemore  cried, 
going  co  her  and  taking  her  hands  in  his.  "Why 
do  you  blame  yourself  for  the  idiocy  of  others? 
Come,  let  us  think  no  more  of  these  things.  They 
are  past  and  done  with.  I  am  going  to  be  your 
friend  now — yours  and  Manders'." 

The  mere  shadow  of  a  smile  played  over  her  lips, 
moist  with  tears. 

"Don't  you  understand  what  I  have  been  saying 
to  you?"  she  asked.  "I  have  been  telling  you  of 
a  mistake  I  have  made — a  great  mistake,  a  mistake 
that  I  am  myself  jusb  coming  to  understand.  Do 
you  think  I  am  wicked  enough  to  make  the  same 
mistake  again  ? " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Marie  ?     What  mistake  ? " 

"You  see,  all  that  I  intended  to  say  to  you  has 
gone  away  from  me.  It  was  all  thought  out,  but 
it  is  not  clear  now.  This  is  clear  to  me,  though ; 
I  am  not  the  kind  of  woman  you  should  marry." 

Blakemore  started  at  the  word.  Marie  noted  the 
slight  movement,  and,  comprehending  its  significance, 
hesitated  a  little  and  then  went  on  in  a  lower 
voice,  "You  could  not  marry  me;  I  would  not  let 
another  man  ruin  his  life  for  me ;  and,  for  my  boy's 
sake,  I  will  never  be  any  man's  mistress." 

She  spoke  these  last  words  with  such  quiet  dignity 
with  such  simple  unaflectedness  that  Blakemore 
was  impressed  by  the  firmnesa  of  the  purpose  be- 

137 


MANDERS 

hind  them.  He  saw  her  in  quite  a  new  light,  and 
felt  humbled  by  the  calm  gaze  of  the  eyes,  in 
which  there  was  the  softness  of  a  love  which  was 
not  all  maternal.  He  knew  he  held  the  heart  of  this 
woman ;  and  he  knew,  too,  that  an  insuperable  barrier 
was  raised  between  them  by  the  mere  poise  of  a 
character  he  had  supposed  to  be  weakly  submissive. 
He  held  her  hands  in  silence,  not  knowing  what  to 
say.  He  felt  that  he  owed  her  reparation  in  some 
way,  but  he  was  at  the  same  time  aware  that  she 
had  closed  all  ways  against  him.  He  was  oppressed 
by  the  sense  of  their  separation.  This  was  their 
going  apart,  their  farewell  He  knew  it  instinctively, 
though  his  heart  beat  rebelliously  against  the 
thought,  and  he  felt  a  passionate  yearning  to  take 
her  consolingly  in  his  arms,  crying  down  with  a 
pitiful  love  all  her  objections,  overcoming  by  the 
ardour  of  his  own  emotions  those  self-denying  scruples 
that  would  do  her  such  grievous  wrong.  A  remem- 
brance of  Florence  and  the  day  at  Vincennes  irritated 
him  strangely.  He  knew  that  Marie  had  thought 
of  this  more  fortunate  woman,  this  woman  in  every 
way  qualified  to  be  tho  wife  of  a  gentleman,  and 
he  was  certain  that  this  thought  had  magnified  in 
her  mind  her  own  unworthiness.  He  wished  to 
reassure  her,  to  make  her  understand  how  little  weight 
conditions  had  with  him,  how  thoroughly  deserv- 
ing she  was  of  his  best  esteem,  his  sincerest  devotion. 
But  these  very  reflections  proved  to  him  that  it 
was  compassion,  pity,  repentance  which  moved  in 

138 


MANDERS 

his  sentiments  for  Marie,  that  love  was  something 
other,  for  his  pulses  quickened  under  these  thoughts 
of  Florence,  irritating  though  they  were  as  pricks  to 
conscience. 

"Well,  Marie?"  he  said  at  length,  looking  down 
at  the  hands  impassive  in  his  own. 

She  sighed,  as  if  suddenly  aroused  from  a  reverie, 
and  stood  up,  gently  releasing  her  hands  from  his 
clasp  as  she  did  so. 

"  If  you  wish,"  she  said,  "  I  will  pose  for  you  until 
the  picture  is  finished." 

"  And  then  ? "  he  asked,  knowing  very  well  what 
her  answer  would  be. 

u  Then  we  will  say  good-bye." 

"  No,  Marie,  not  that !  We  can  always  be  good 
friends." 

"  Yes,  we  can  always  be  good  friends,"  she  assented. 

"  And  work  together ! "  he  urged. 

She  shook  her  head,  smiling  in  a  half -sad  way,  the 
mist  gathering  in  her  eyes.  There  was  no  need  of 
words.  But  he  protested  still 

"Manders  must  be  thought  of,  you  know.  His 
education  must  be  looked  to.  You  cannot  do  that  as 
well  as  I.  For  Manders'  sake,  Marie ! " 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"  He  will  go  to  school  There  are  those  where  it 
costs  but  little.  I  can  earn  enough." 

"  In  the  old  way  ? "  he  asked. 

"  In  some  way,"  she  answered. 

"  You  won't  let  me  help  ? " 
139 


MANDERS 

"  Yes,  you  can  help ;  think  well  of  me.*  She  pat 
out  her  hand,  half-humorously  but  much  in  earnest, 
too. 

"Oh!  Marie!"  He  would  have  kissed  her  lips, 
but  she  turned  aside  her  head,  preventing  him. 

"Shall  we  go  on  with  the  picture?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  shall  not  finish  the  picture 
now."  There  was  a  long  silence,  their  clasped  hands 
saying  all  there  was  to  say. 

"  Good-bye,  Walter  i "  she  said  at  last, 

"  Good-bye,  Marie ! " 

"Shall  I  call  Edouard?" 

"No." 

He  took  up  his  hat  and  stood  twirling  it  in  his 
hands  for  some  moments.  Then,  suddenly,  and 
thinking  only  of  their  parting, — 

"I  am  going  to  Italy  in  a  few  days." 

She  remembered  the  letter  postmarked  Florence. 

"  Yes ;  that  is  right/'  she  said, 


CHAPTER  XI 

EVEN  a  rigid  economy  and  an  exemplary  practice  of 
all  the  personal  and  domestic  virtues  will  not  enable  a 
man  with  a  wife,  two  daughters,  and  a  son  at  Harrow, 
to  out  much  of  a  figure  in  the  world  if  he  have  no 
more  income  than  a  captain's  half-pay.  Indeed,  there 
were  times  in  the  experience  of  Captain  Warley  when 
the  question  of  a  no-longer-to-be-averted  new  frock 
for  a  growing  daughter  was  as  formidable  a  financial 
problem  as  the  negotiation  of  a  governmental  loan. 
Fortunately  for  her  own  peace  of  mind,  Mrs  Warley 
had  an  aversion  to  Society,  so  that  one  carefully- 
guarded  black  satin  gown  and  a  mantilla  shawl,  or 
cloak,  originally  the  property  of  her  grandmother, 
served  her  triumphantly  on  occasions  when  she 
recognised  the  necessity  of  making  an  appearance. 
The  captain,  by  an  equal  attentiveuess  to  the  folds 
and  creases  of  a  neatly-fitting  if  no  longer  fashionable 
walking  suit,  could  transform  himself  from  morning 
threadbareness  into  afternoon  gentility  with  com- 
paratively little  effort.  Miss  Warley,  by  reason  of 
her  vocation,  might  have  enjoyed  a  respectable,  well- 
dressed  independence  if  she  had  not  been  troubled 
by  some  primitive  ideas  of  filial  responsibility  that 

141 


MANDERS 

urged  her  to  give  the  moiety  of  her  slender  earnings 
into  the  household  treasury.  Nevertheless,  her 
spinster  angularities  were  becomingly  enough  draped 
in  garments  befitting  the  semi-social  character  of 
her  professional  relations.  Miss  Polly  was  at  that 
uncomfortable  and  dispiriting  age  for  girls  of  an 
economic  menage  when  the  length  of  skirts  becomes 
a  subject  of  feeling  debate.  Her  daily  battle  with 
the  vanities  of  fortune  had  to  do  with  the  distance 
between  her  boot-tops  and  the  hem  of  her  garments, 
and  she  thought  life  injuriously  beset  by  hardships. 
The  young  gentleman  at  Harrow  had  much  the  best  of 
it,  as  the  representative  at  large  of  the  family  dignity ; 
and  if  he  was  inappreciative  of  the  sacrifices  made  in 
his  behalf,  the  household  cheered  itself  to  new  de- 
privations by  the  reflection  that  a  clever  lad  must  be 
allowed  some  latitude  in  the  matter  of  self-develop- 
ment. Altogether  a  fairly  united  family,  with  no 
more  dissension  and  bickering  than  the  circumstances 
warranted.  To  be  sure,  Mrs  Warley  had  a  some- 
what acidulated  temper,  that  effervesced  without 
much  provocation  and  sometimes  put  the  captain  to 
the  necessity  of  preparing  the  family  dinner;  but 
the  captain  admitted  to  himself  that  perhaps  his 
cynicisms  were  rather  "  rasping  "  at  times,  though  he 
meant  to  be  perfectly  amiable  in  uttering  them.  In- 
deed, nothing  amused  or  surprised  him  more  than  the 
twists  of  meaning  Mrs  Warley  could  give  to  a  simple 
and,  as  he  supposed,  unoffending  speech.  He  thought 
she  had  a  special  genius  for  perverting  his  casual  and 

142 


MANDERS 

innocent  remarks  into  personal  affronts  when  her 
moods  were  cloudy,  and  the  long  intimacy  of  their 
union  had  not  fitted  him  to  read  the  signs  that  might 
have  served  as  warnings  to  a  less  optimistic  faith 
than  his  own. 

It  was  early  candle-light,  and  the  four  members  of 
the  family  were  seated  in  the  sparely-furnished  room 
that  served  the  double  uses  of  drawing  and  dining- 
room.  The  captain  and  Miss  Polly  were  absorbed 
in  the  intricate  game  of  draughts,  which  was  the 
favourite  pastime  of  the  old  soldier,  who  found  a 
serious  campaigning  interest  in  routing  the  forces 
of  the  enemy.  Miss  Warley  was  occupied  in  re- 
arranging the  feathers  of  her  hat,  and  Mrs  Warley 
was  considering  the  ever-vexatious  problem  of  what 
should  be  served  for  dinner.  This  tranquillity  was 
disturbed  by  a  ring  at  the  door-bell — extraordinary 
phenomenon  for  the  hour.  There  was  a  general 
exclamation  of  surprise,  an  exchange  of  inquiring 
glances,  but  no  one  evinced  an  intention  to  answer 
the  bell. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  the  captain,  finally,  jumping  two 
of  Miss  Polly's  men  as  he  spoke,  "  that  we  might  as 
well  see  who  is  there." 

Thus  urged,  Miss  Warley  went  to  the  door  and  let 
in  Blakemore. 

His  reception  was  so  cordial,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
he  was  so  much  an  old,  familiar  friend,  he  was  re- 
luctant to  make  it  known  that  business  rather  than 
courtesy  had  prompted  his  first  visit  He  followed 

143 


MANDERS 

the  captain's  conversational  lead  so  deferentially  that 
the  delighted  veteran  was  tempted  to  mount,  in  turn, 
all  the  hobbies  of  his  intellectual  stable,  and  in 
showering  his  opinions  upon  Blakemore  imagined  he 
was  enjoying  the  play  of  his  guest's  resourceful 
fancies.  He  took  more  for  granted  than  was  justified 
by  Blakemore's  admissions,  and  Mrs  Warley  was 
moved  to  object  once  in  a  while, — 

"But  that  is  not  what  Mr  Blakemore  said,  Leonard.' 
"  It  amounts  to  the  same  thing,"  the  captain  would 
respond  cheerily.  "  Men  of  intelligence  hold  much  the 
same  opinions,  though  they  differ  sometimes  in  their 
modes  of  expression.  Mr  Blakemore  says  he  finds  a 
good  many  things  to  admire  in  the  French,  which 
does  not  at  all  dispute  my  opinion  that  they  are  an 
abominable  people.  He  thinks  them  highly  artistic, 
but  that  is  not  to  deny  that  they  are  morally  de- 
praved and  hopelessly  degenerate.  He  says  he  likes 
to  live  among  them,  but  that  is  not  to  say  that  he 
does  not  thank  God  for  having  escaped  the  infamy 
of  being  born  a  Frenchman.  I  find  we  are  very  well 
agreed,  my  dear.  We  see  the  same  thing  from 
slightly  different  points  of  view;  and  you  must  not 
forget,  my  dear,  that  Mr  Blakemore,  in  addition  to 
being  young  and  an  enthusiast,  is  an  American,  and 
the  Americans  are  only  now  reading  the  introductory 
pages  of  socio-political  history.  They  are  not  as  old 
as  their  mother  yet,"  he  concluded,  with  »  merry 
thrust  at  Blakemore  with  the  end  of  ft  goose-quill  he 
had  picked  up  from  the  table. 

144 


Blakemore  soon  after  found  a  chance  to  say,  "I 
fear  I  have  overstayed  my  time  without  having 
mentioned  one  of  the  chief  reasons  for  my  call." 

"Overstayed  your  time!"  exclaimed  the  captain. 
"Nothing  of  the  kind;  you  are  going  to  honour  us 
by  stopping  to  dinner." 

The  captain  shot  a  glance  at  Mrs  Warley,  and 
repented  him.  But  having  hoisted  the  flag  of  hos- 
pitality he  determined  to  keep  it  floating,  despite 
the  threatenings  that  Blakemore  was  not  in  a 
position  to  see. 

"  I  say  dinner,"  continued  the  captain,  with  re- 
doubled cheeriness,  "as  a  mere  figure  of  speech, 
for  the  fact  is  we  have  surrendered  to  one  of  the 
barbarisms  of  the  Quarter  and  take  our  principal 
meal  at  one  o'clock.  As  we  all  go  to  bed  early,  we 
have  got  into  the  way  of  making  our  evening 
repast  a  mere  excuse  for  good-night  conversation. 
We  believe  in  light  eating  for  sound  sleeping.  I'm 
sure  you  won't  mind  sharing  what  scraps  we  may 
find  in  the  larder." 

Blakemore  declared  himself  flattered  to  be  received 
so  informally  into  the  family  circle. 

"Don't  make  any  extra  preparation,"  said  the 
captain,  with  a  benevolent  flourish,  as  Mrs  Warley 
started  for  the  kitchen.  "Air  Blakemore  would 
rather  we  wouldn't  make  company  of  him.  I  dare- 
say he  hates  fuss  and  feathers.  I  do,  God  knows ! " 

Miss  Warley  went  out,  ostensibly  to  assist  her 
mother,  but  really  to  make  a  flank  movement  on 


MANDERS 

the  neighbouring  dpicerie.  But  this  stratagem  Mrs 
Warley  positively  forbade. 

"  If  your  father  will  invite  people  to  dinner  when 
there  is  not  enough  in  the  house  to  feed  a  cat,  let 
him  take  the  consequences.  I  can  see  no  sense  in 
our  slaving  our  lives  away  economising  in  this  miser- 
able hole,  if  your  father  is  going  to  indulge  his 
extravagant  caprices  in  this  fashion.  I  haven't  the 
least  idea  what  there  is." 

An  inventory  revealed  three  slices  of  ham,  a  quantity 
of  bread,  a  jug  of  milk,  a  bottle  and  a  half  of  beer, 
and  enough  chicoree  for  a  modest  salad. 

"Quite  enough,"  said  Mrs  Warley,  emphatically, 
when  Miss  Warley  once  more  proposed  to  move  upon 
the  grocer.  "It  will  teach  your  father  a  lesson.  I 
only  hope  he  will  be  sufficiently  ashamed  of  himself." 

"  I  am  afraid  he  won't,"  said  Miss  Warley,  with  a 
smile. 

"  No,  of  course  not.  The  fact  that  he  has  put  me 
to  a  lot  of  embarrassment  would  keep  him  good- 
humoured  through  a  famine.  Nothing  gives  him  so 
much  pleasure  as  putting  me  out  of  temper." 

"I  didn't  mean  that,  you  know,  mother,"  Miss 
Warley  said,  in  a  suave  tone,  and  busying  herself 
with  the  salad. 

"Oh,  I  know  who  has  your  sympathies,"  Mrs 
Warley  petulantly  retorted.  "Your  father  has  turned 
all  my  children  against  me.  He  has  taught  you  all 
to  laugh  at  me  and  despise  me ;  but  I  have  no  doubt 
he  will  reap  his  reward,  in  this  world  or  the  next 

146 


MANDERS 

I  should  not  like  to  have  to  suffer  his  punishment 
for  him  !  I  think  you  are  putting  entirely  too  much 
oil  in  that  salad.  Oil  is  expensive,  and  our  bills  were 
something  frightful  last  month." 

Miss  Polly  had  laid  the  table,  Blakemore  assisting 
her,  to  the  captain's  delight ;  and  the  veteran,  radiat- 
ing amity  and  loving-kindness,  rashly  plunged  into 
the  kitchen  to  help  to  fetch  the  things.  He  returned 
presently,  his  gaiety  now  a  mere  veneer  extravagantly 
laid  on,  bearing  the  beer  bottles,  the  milk  jug  and 
the  salad.  Miss  Warley  followed  with  the  bread  and 
ham,  Mrs  Warley  bringing  up  the  rear,  a  glacial  smile 
upon  her  lips  and  a  grim  satisfaction  sparkling  in 
her  dark  brown  eyes.  The  captain's  despairing  query, 
"Is  this  all  there  is?"  as  he  surveyed  the  kitchen 
supply  had  gone  far  toward  restoring  Mrs  Warley  to 
her  occasional  sweetness  of  humour. 

"  Here  we  are,  Blakemore ! "  exclaimed  the  captain, 
as  he  re-entered.  "Pull  up  your  chair  and  let  us 
make  merry.  No  form,  no  airs,  you  know.  It  is 
always  Liberty  Hall  with  the  Warleys.  Look  at 
that!  Is  that  not  a  salad,  eh?  What  more  does  a 
man  want  with  a  bottle  of  beer  and  a  loaf  of  bread  ? 
What  have  you  got  there,  Matilda,  my  dear  ?  Ham ! 
Lord  bless  us,  we  nev  or  eat  meat  at  night  1  Oh,  for 
Mr  Blakemore !  Very  well,  set  it  in  front  of  his 
place.  But  a  bad  practice,  Blakemore,  a  bad  practice, 
my  dear  fellow  I  Nothing  so  bad  for  the  stomach  as 
meat  at  night  Bad  for  the  digestion  and  damnable 
for  dreams.  Don't  you  find  it  so  ?  But  you  are  young 

147 


MANDERS 

and  tough.  I  was  just  as  reckless  at  your  age ;  but 
we  learn,  my  dear  boy,  we  learn.  There  is  a  bottle 
of  beer  for  you,  and  here  is  one  for  me.  The  ladies, 
sensible  creatures,  never  drink  anything  but  milk  at 
this  hour,  though  they  don't  object  to  a  little  wine 
earlier  in  the  day.  We  don't  care  much  for  French 
wines  as  you  find  them  in  Paris ;  not  the  sort  of  stuff 
we  have  at  home.  London  is  the  only  place  in  the 
world  for  good  wine.  That's  the  market !  As  for 
the  Frenchman's  cigars  —  the  less  said  about  them 
the  better.  Their  good  ones  are  pretty  bad,  and  their 
bad  ones  are  only  fairly  good.  Really,  the  French 
have  nothing  worth  speaking  of  but  pastry — and  we 
don't  like  that" 

Cheerily  running  on,  the  captain  diffused  such  a 
glow  of  good-fellowship,  and  imparted  to  the  forced 
economy  of  his  table  such  a  character  of  hygienic 
wisdom,  that  by  degrees  the  party  became  as  jovial 
as  if  Barmecide  feasts  were  the  true  productive  centres 
of  conviviality.  Mrs  Warley  relaxed  so  much  the 
early  austerity  of  her  manner  that  she  undertook  to 
vie  with  the  captain  in  the  discharge  of  pleasantries, 
and  Blakemore  found  her  a  woman  of  the  lively  in- 
telligence which  allies  itself  to  wit.  It  was  surpris- 
ing, too,  how  great  a  transformation  was  made  in 
the  appearance  of  Miss  Warley,  whose  plain  features 
assumed  a  sort  of  beauty  under  the  spell  of  sunny 
gaiety  to  which  she  surrendered  herself.  Kind  hearts 
are  wonderful  illuminators,  and  perhaps  there  are  no 
hearts  kinder  than  those  which  beat  under  the  prim 


MANDERS 

bodices  and  formal  waistcoats  of  English  tipper  middle* 
class  conservatism.  Even  Miss  Polly,  still  at  an  age 
when  it  becomes  one  to  be  seen  rather  than  heard, 
could  not  resist  the  levities  of  the  occasion,  but  be- 
haved over  her  milk  as  if  it  had  been  an  intoxicant. 
Altogether,  Blakemore  thought  he  had  never  sat  so 
agreeably  at  table,  and  laid  down  his  napkin  with 
the  consciousness  of  having  dined  to  satisfaction.  He 
gave  frank  expression  to  his  contentment,  his  remark 
calling  from  the  captain  the  wholesome  generalisation 
that  hospitality  consists  not  in  the  things  one  dis- 
penses but  wholly  in  the  spirit  of  dispensation.  As 
there  was  no  room  to  which  the  ladies  could  retire, 
the  captain,  with  a  deferential  wave  of  the  hand  in 
the  direction  of  Mrs  Warley,  accorded  Blakemore  the 
privilege  of  smoking  as  they  sat,  if  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  smoking  after  dinner.  The  captain  himself  had 
rather  gotten  out  of  the  habit,  because,  as  he  said,  bad 
tobacco  made  him  ill,  and  he  found  it  difficult  to  keep 
himself  supplied  with  good  weeds  from  abroad.  He 
might  have  explained  that  his  abstinence  was  the 
result  of  many  lectures  by  Mrs  Warley  upon  the 
selfish  extravagance  of  buying  cigars  to  waste  in 
nasty  smoke  when  she  was  doing  without  &  servant 
in  order  that  the  family  might  wear  whole  stockings. 
It  was  grateful  to  see,  however,  the  sybaritic  gleam 
in  the  captain's  eyes  as  he  deprecatingly  took  the 
undeniably  good  cigar  Blakemore  offered  him  from 
his  pocket-case. 

*  Merely  to    be    sociable,"  he  said,  and,  blowing 
•49 


MANDERS 

rapturous  clouds  above  the  gently  wavering  candle 
flames,  he  added,  with  a  sigh,  "It  seems  a  pity  to 
burn  such  virtuous  tobacco.  Do  you  know,  I  think 
that  is  what  was  the  matter  with  Cain ;  he  grubbed 
up  a  lot  of  tobacco  plants  in  his  ignorance  and  made 
a  bonfire  of  them — strong  evidence  of  the  theory  that 
the  original  Garden  of  Eden  was  in  America." 

This  irreverent  conceit  was  a  favourite  pleasantry 
with  the  captain,  the  more  cherished  for  the  shock  it 
gave  Mrs  Warley.  He  laughed  immoderately  at  her 
remonstrance,  an  invariable  "  Why,  Leonard ! "  and 
disclaimed  responsibility  by  declaring  he  had  first 
heard  it  from  General  Lord  Something-or-other  in 
India,  a  noble  authority  for  any  quotation. 

Not  until  the  evening  was  well  advanced,  and  Miss 
Polly  had  retired  dutifully  to  bed  at  a  nod  from 
her  mother,  did  Blakemore  find  a  suitable  opening 
for  an  explanation  of  his  coming  so  unceremoni- 
ously to  the  Warleys.  He  wished  to  interest  them 
in  Manders. 

"  My  daughter  thinks  him  an  uncommonly  bright 
boy,"  the  captain  said,  when  the  subject  was  intro- 
duced, "  and  already  feels  a  deep  degree  of  hopeful  in- 
terest in  him.  She  thinks  the  trouble  is  going  to  be  in 
keeping  him  back,  eh,  Matilda,  my  dear  ? " 

Miss  Warley  concurred  so  feelingly  that  Blakemore 
felt  relieved  of  embarrassment  as  to  what  he  should 
say  on  Marie's  account.  He  proceeded  at  once  to 
state  his  object.  He  was  going  away  for  a  time. 
Madame  Manders  was  not  a  woman  who  would 

150 


MANDERS 

consent  to  receive  benefits  from  him  or  anyone  to 
whom  she  could  not  make  compensation,  and,  being  no 
longer  in  his  employment,  so  to  speak,  she  would 
naturally  be  disinclined  to  accept  favours  at  his 
hands,  and  he  feared  she  might  not  be  able  to  afford 
to  give  Manders  a  music  teacher.  But  if  it  could  be 
made  to  appear  that  Miss  Warley  was  enough  in- 
terested in  the  boy  to  give  him  lessons  gratuitously 
rather  than  lose  so  promising  a  pupil,  why,  he,  Blake- 
more,  would  be  only  too  happy  to  pay  the  tuition. 
Madame  Manders  would  be  none  the  worse  for  the 
innocent  deception  from  which  Manders  would  derive 
so  much  good.  "  And,"  continued  Blakemore,  bestow- 
ing upon  the  captain  an  argumentative  smile  as  he 
knocked  off  his  cigar  ash,  "  I  should  have  the  satis- 
faction of  knowing  that  some  of  my  money  was  being 
put  to  a  worthy  use." 

"I  understand  you  perfectly,"  said  the  captain, 
nodding  his  head  sagely,  "  and  I  commend  your  desire 
thoroughly.  My  dear  young  sir,  if  every  man  of 
means  would  take  it  upon  himself  to  look  out  for 
the  future  of  some  deserving  poor  lad,  we  could  soon 
close  up  our  prisons  and  alms-houses,  and  reorganise 
society  on  a  decent  basis.  What  we  need  in  this 
blessed  world  of  ours  is  the  recognition  of  the  fact 
that  no  man  has  a  right  to  be  happy  who  is  not  in- 
telligently and  persistently  contributing  to  the  happi- 
ness of  those  who  are  less  fortunate  than  himself. 
But  we  are  blackguards — blackguards,  the  most  of  us, 
my  dear  Blakemore,  and  we  scramble  for  the  front 


ZANDERS 

seats  without  caring  a  rap  what  we  trample  on.  I 
honour  your  intention,  and  I  am  sure  my  daughter 
will  cheerfully  waive  any  scruple  of  conscience  that 
might  stand  in  the  way  of  furthering  what  you  so 
sensibly  term  an  innocent  deception.  Am  I  not  right, 
Matilda,  my  dear  ?  Don't  you  fully  agree  with  me, 
Mrs  Warley  ?  Shall  we  not  oblige  our  young  friend  ? 
You  see  it  is  settled.  There  is  my  hand,  with  the 
guaranty  that  my  daughter  will  look  after  the  boy 
as  carefully  as  if  he  were  her  own." 

There  was  some  dispute  about  terms,  Blakemore 
wishing  to  be  generous,  the  captain  insisting  upon 
exact  equity  and  scorning  the  idea  of  possible  extras, 

"  There  are  no  extras  under  an  agreement  between 
gentlemen,"  he  declared,  with  an  emphatic  shake  of 
the  head,  and,  consulting  Miss  Wariey  as  to  her  terms, 
figured  out  with  mathematical  precision  that  the  first 
quarter,  for  which  Blakemore  insisted  on  paying  in 
advance,  would  come  to  just  one  hundred  and  thirty- 
five  francs,  the  amount  being  at  once  given  into  Miss 
Warley's  hands. 

"  A  deuced  fine  fellow,  eh,  girls  ? "  said  the  captain, 
addressing  his  wife  and  daughter,  when  Blakemore 
had  gone. 

"  Oh !  I  suppose  there  are  worse  men  in  the  world," 
Mrs  Warley  admitted ;  "  but  it  seems  to  me  he  takes 
rather  a  curious  interest  in  this  Madame  Menders,  as 
you  call  her." 

"Suspicious,  my  dear,  always  suspicious!  It  is 
devilish  strange  how  little  faith  women  have  in  one 

left 


MANDERS 

another.     One  would  imagine  that  you  don't  believe 
in  any  such  thing  as — " 

"Come,  Leonard,  don't  be  a  fool.    It  is  bed  time. 
You  have  talked  enough  for  one  night" 


CHAPTER 

As  the  atmosphere  and  life  of  Paris  stimulate  and  set 
in  play  the  sensuous  fibres  of  animal  being,  so  the 
atmosphere  and  life  of  Home  animate  the  nobler 
emotions  and  the  finer  sentiments  of  impressionable 
natures.  Sensibility  can  have  no  surer  re- baptism 
into  moral  grace  than  comes  of  passing  with  con- 
sciousness from  the  ever  modern  and  febrile  French 
capital  to  the  tradition-haunted  dignity  of  the  first 
of  Italian  cities.  Vice  itself  puts  on  the  garment  of 
reserve,  and  though  Hetaira  drive  along  the  Corso 
with  her  retinue,  as  her  custom  is,  when  the  world 
is  gay,  the  air,  heavy  with  the  ghostly  memories  of 
two  thousand  years,  softens  her  laughter  into  the 
counterfeit  of  modesty.  It  is  the  extravagance  of 
paradoxy  that  a  city,  indelibly  stained  by  excesses  in 
all  the  crimes  and  infamies  of  history,  should  breathe 
out  the  spirit  of  loftiest  inspiration,  and  quicken  in 
the  alien  soul  all  the  elements  that  make  for  loveliness 
and  virtue.  There  are  squalor  and  viciousness  enough 
in  Rome  to  eat  out  the  heart  of  any  other  city ;  but 
the  canker  may  not  touch  the  vitality  of  Rome  while 
the  miraculous  dome  of  St  Peter's  towers  in  bene- 
diction over  the  people  of  the  Seven  Hills,  or  the 


MANDERS 

battered  columns  of  the  Forum  are  respected  witnesses 
to  the  solemnity  of  a  glorious  past. 

This  is  seldom  a  first  impression.  Disappointment 
is  heavy  upon  the  spirit  in  the  initial  days.  Modernity 
gives  to  expectant  enthusiasm  a  humiliating  blow  that 
makes  appreciation  slow,  and  Miss  Storey,  just  come 
from  Florence,  a  city  instantly  responsive  to  one's 
preconceived  ideal,  felt  the  change  grievously  and 
wished  at  once  to  re-arrange  their  winter  plan.  But 
by  the  time  Blakemore  and  Mr  Mendenhall  arrived, 
the  place  had,  as  she  expressed  it,  begun  to  lay  hold 
on  her,  and  the  sympathies  of  these  two  young  men, 
affectionately  acquainted  with  Rome,  speedily  brought 
her  to  a  complete  surrender,  so  that  by  the  end  of  an 
exceptionally  benignant  January,  she  was,  as  Mrs 
Storey  declared,  "  a  Roman  fanatic." 

Blakemore  had  joined  the  Storeys  with  a  wavering 
sense  of  proprietory  right  over  Florence  in  his  mind, 
and  was  disposed  to  attach  a  special  importance  to 
some  trifling  incidents  of  their  Paris  leave-taking. 
He  contrived  visits  to  galleries  and  churches  that 
should  exclude  the  other  and  dispensable  members  of 
the  quartette,  sentimental  projects  in  which  Florence 
showed  an  acquiescent  interest,  but  of  which  Mr 
Mendenhall  was  always  mysteriously  aware  in  time 
to  give  them  his  personal  attention.  Mrs  Storey's 
intuitions  seemed  to  be  almost  equally  fine,  and 
Blakemore  began  to  take  argumentative  note  of  the 
fact  that  whenever  the  chances  of  sight  -  seeing 
separated  the  party,  it  was  his  invariable  fortune  to 


MANDERS 

be  left  in  the  charge  of  this  peremptorily  vivacious 
lady.  Of  coarse  he  took  occasion  to  tax  Florence  With 
duplicity*  adding  to  his  plaint  a  certain  amount  of 
mild  reprobation.  Looking  at  him  with  an  affectation 
of  surprise,  in  which  lay  a  good  deal  of  mischievous 
malice,  she  exclaimed,  "  And  do  you  think,  my  dear 
Walter,  that  I  dare  trust  myself  alone  with  you  after" 
the  way  you  behaved  the  last  time  we  were  together 
without  guardians?  Besides,  I  like  being  with  Mr 
Mendenhall.  He  has  ideas;  and  he  isn't  always 
trying  to  stop  me  in  front  of  pictures  with  cupids  in 
them.  He  actually  knows  the  history  of  the  things 
and  places  we  see,  and  can  tell  me  about  them,  and  do 
it  without  making  me  feel  my  ignorance.  On  the 
other  hand,  mamma  is  getting  to  like  you  very  well, 
and  thinks  you  quite  a  respectable  cicerone.  I  should 
suppose  you  would  see  the  advantages  of  the  arrange- 
ment without  an  elaborate  explanation.  But  since 
you  are  unreasonable  enough  to  want  to  limit  my 
pleasures,  do  you  mind  telling  me  upon  what  grounds 
you  base  your  claim  to  my  obedience  ?  " 

"I  thought  an  engagement  conferred  some  privi- 
leges on  a  fellow,"  said  Blakemore,  smiling,  but  not 
entirely  confident. 

"That  is  something  I  know  nothing  about,"  she 
replied  complacently.  "I  suppose  an  engagement 
allows  of  a  certain  amount  of  freedom,  but  I  have 
never  felt  the  need  of  it  I  have  always  been  at 
perfect  liberty  to  do  as  I  pleased,  and  I  never  could 
see  that  an  engagement  would  enlarge  my  scope  of 

i* 


•      MANDERS 

action.  When  I  find  myself  hampered,  111  think 
about  it.  In  the  meantime,  please  bear  in  mind  that 
your  only  right  in  me  is  the  right  to  have  a  serious 
talk  with  me  some  eighteen  months  from  now  if  I  am 
then  inclined  to  listen  to  you." 

"  But  your  letters  to  me — "  urged  Blakemore. 

"  Mere  compositions,  my  dear  Walter.  It  is  the 
duty  of  every  self-respecting  woman  to  advance  her- 
self in  the  art  of  letter-writing.  She  never  knows 
when  it  may  become  useful.  That  is  all  that  ever  made 
Madame  de  SeVigne  or  Jane  Carlyle  anything  more 
than  domestic  appendages.  You  are  not  bigot  enough 
to  deny  one  some  latitude  in  that  field  of  invention, 
I  hope  ?  I  must  have  someone  on  whom  to  practise  I 
Why  are  men  so  ridiculously  given  to  making  logical 
deductions  from  simple  casualties  ? " 

Indeed,  Blakemore  smoked  many  a  good-night 
cigar  that  lost  flavour  in  the  bitterness  of  his  reflec- 
tions upon  the  fretful  deficiencies  and  irritating 
overpluses  of  this  particular  season  in  Rome,  the  least 
satisfying  of  the  several  he  had  passed  in  the  hitherto 
favoured  city.  Mrs  Storey,  who  professed  an  abhor- 
rence of  hotels,  and  a  detestation  of  pensions,  had 
taken  a  small  but  comfortable  house  just  beyond  the 
Porto  del  Popolo  in  the  embrace  of  the  Pincian  hill, 
where  she  entertained  with  sue.h  incessant  energy 
that  Florence  seemed  to  revolve  in  the  inner  eddies 
of  an  ever-widening  social  swirl  which  kept  Blake- 
more in  its  outward  expansion.  Necessarily  there 
was  ai*  increasing  number  of  reciprocal  parties  and 

157 


MANDERS 

dinners  of  a  limited  character,  to  which  neither 
Blakemore  nor  Mr  Mendenhall  was  invited,  and  they 
found  opportunities  to  indulge  in  those  employments 
precious  to  the  hearts  of  men  which  are  exclusive  of 
the  frivolously  feminine.  It  was  on  one  of  these 
occasions  that,  as  they  idled  over  their  coffee  and 
cognac  in  the  smoke  -  room  of  their  hotel,  Mr 
Mendenhall  suddenly  asked, — 

"  Do  you  ever  play  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  yes,  once  in  a  way ;  though  I  am  not  much 
good  at  it — except  for  the  other  fellows,"  Blakemore 
answered,  laughingly.  "  Why  ?  Are  you  much  in 
that  way?" 

"  Well,  I  have  not  done  much  at  it  since  I  tried  a 
'  system '  at  Monte  Carlo  last  season.  But  I  feel  in 
the  mood  for  a  turn  at  it  to-night  What  do  you 
say?" 

"  I  don't  mind  a  lira  or  two,"  Blakemore  assented. 
"  I  haven't  looked  at  a  card  for  a  year.  But  I  should 
prefer  a  quiet  little  game  of  poker  to  baccarat.  One 
loses  so  much  more  intelligently  when  he  holds  the 
cards  himself." 

"You  Americans  have  such  a  passion  for  'bluff.' 
Do  you  know  Orteviti's  ? " 

"No." 

"I'll  introduce  you.  A  quiet  sort  of  place.  A 
kind  of  club,  you  know,  where  you  only  meet  the 
right  sort.  You  can  lose  your  money  without 
suspicion.  Your  gentleman  Italian  is  the  most  re- 
fined gamester  in  the  world,  and  takes  your  purse  in 

158 


MANDERS 

a  way  that  does  you  honour.  Come  along.  We'll 
go  to  the  ballet  for  half  an  hour  or  so  and  get  to 
Orteviti's  in  the  thick  of  it  Orteviti,  you  know, 
belongs  to  a  splendid  old  family,  and  had  a  doge  or 
two,  and  half  a  dozen  senators  for  his  ancestors. 
Poor  as  the  devil  now,  but  has  to  keep  up  appear- 
ances. Lives  at  Venice  in  the  summer,  and  puts  gilt 
on  the  family  traditions  with  his  winter  earnings. 
Most  pathetic  thing,  the  old  Italian  nobility.  Rags 
and  pride  makes  a  deucedly  uncomfortable  combina- 
tion ;  but  the  beggars  have  really  got  something  to 
be  proud  of.  I  don't  know  but  they've  got  the  best 
of  it  after  all.  There  is  something  great  about  a 
nation  that  will  starve  to  death  rather  than  part 
with  its  art  treasures.  Some  of  our  commercial  idiots 
will  tell  you  that  the  Italians  hang  on  to  their  pictures 
and  things  merely  as  a  bait  to  money-spending 
tourists.  Rot !  without  a  yard  of  canvas  or  a  foot  of 
statuary,  Italy  would  have  attraction  enough  to  draw 
the  world  into  her  sunshine.  Why,  just  to  lie  in  a 
gondola  and  see  the  sun  go  down,  or  the  moon  come 
up  behind  the  domes  of  Venice  ;  or  to  chuck  coppers 
at  the  naked  little  brats  swimming  in  the  Bay  of 
Naples ;  or  to  watch  the  washerwomen  on  the  banks 
of  the  Arno;  or  to  fish  in  the  mud  of  old  Tiber, 
here,  is  worth  all  the  damned  nonsense  of  our  pomp- 
ous modernism,  with  its  trade  arrogance  and  its 
gold -clinking  vulgarities.  I  always  feel  like  an  ass 
swaggering  through  the  church  parade  in  Hyde  Park, 
or  gasping  in  the  crush  of  some  ostentatious  reception, 


MANDERS 

or  bolting  the  dishes  of  &  deadly  ceremonious  dinner ; 
but  when  I  get  under  the  skies  of  Italy,  where  you 
can  reach  up  and  touch  the  blue,  and  see  spread 
around  you  every  tone  and  shade  and  form  and  con- 
dition that  enters  into  the  perfection  of  beauty,  I  feel 
like  a  son  of  God,  and  I'm  devilish  glad  to  be  alive. 
What  are  you  laughing  at?  Come  along;  I  am 
dangerously  in  the  way  of  saying  something.  It  is 
lucky  they  have  ballets  and  things  in  Italy,  or  we 
would  all  be  writing  Childe  Harolds,  Casa  Guidi 
windows  and  stuff  of  that  sort.  There  is  enough  of 
the  earth  and  the  flesh  here  to  keep  the  average  man 
normal.  But  I  should  think  you  painters  would  go 
stark  mad." 

The  ballet  was  "Excelsior,"  a  great  rage  at  the 
time,  and  the  two  friends  were  familiar  enough  with 
it  to  time  its  best  effects  and  escape  the  ennwi  of  its 
Jess  interesting  features.  The  ballet,  as  the  worldling 
knows,  is  a  form  of  mental  dissipation  most  enjoy- 
able when  taken  in  small  allowances  and  standing. 
Nothing  is  as  destructive  of  the  aesthetic  values  of 
the  divertissement  as  a  fatigued  eye  or  an  indolent 
posture  of  body.  Blakemore  and  Mendenhall  drifted 
about,  giving  the  stage  a  critical  attention  from 
different  points  of  view,  gossiping  with  acquaint- 
ances, exchanging  glances  with  would-be  indulgent 
signorinas,  until  the  Triumph  of  Light  reminded  them 
of  Orteviti  and  the  real  purpose  of  their  evening. 

The  places  at  table  were  taken,  with  one  exception, 
and  MendenhaJl  sat  in  this,  Blakemore  playing 

if* 


MANDERS 

his  shoulder,  in  an  incidental  way,  that  permitted 
him  to  look  about.  The  spacious  room  was  charm- 
ingly furnished,  and  presented  so  little  the  appear- 
ance of  a  gambling  establishment,  that  one  might 
have  supposed  that  a  gracefully  luxurious  drawing- 
room  had  been  temporarily  surrendered  to  the  pleas- 
ure of  a  purely  social  card  party.  At  one  of  the 
further  tables  were  several  young  women  in  the 
light  splendour  of  evening  dress,  who  played  with 
an  intent  silence  which  betrayed  the  entirely  practical 
purpose  of  the  gathering.  In  the  course  of  an  hour 
the  new  arrivals  were  numerous  enough  to  make  the 
standing  players  as  many  as  those  who  were  seated, 
and  Mendenhall  was  having  such  a  run  of  luck  that 
several  players  were  following  his  lead.  One  of  these 
was  a  nervously  impulsive  man,  prematurely  grey, 
and  wearing  a  decoration,  who  stood  immediately 
at  the  left  of  Blakemore,  and  placed  his  bets  or 
recovered  his  winnings  with  exclamations  of  such 
personal  aplomb  that  one  might  have  thought  his 
volition  alone  determined  the  run  of  the  cards. 
After  a  time  Mendenhall  lost  several  plays  in  succes- 
sion, and  on  the  last  of  these  the  nervous  gentleman 
so  far  forgot  himself  as  to  tap  Mendenhall  on  the 
shoulder  as  he  said  irritably, — 

"Sir,  you  are  playing  without  discretion." 
Mendenhall  looked  up,  saying  with  good  humour,— 
"  Then  it  is  very  foolish  of  you  to  follow  me." 
"  I  do  not  follow  you,  sir ! " 
"  Then  be  good  enough  not  to  comment  on  my  play." 

L 


MANDERS 

"  You  are  insolent,  sir." 
"  And  you  impertinent." 

"  Make  your  play,  gentlemen,"  said  the  croupier,  in 
his  perfunctory  way. 

Mendenhall  prepared  to  place  his  billets. 
"My  card,"  said  the  nervous  gentleman,  thrusting 
the  article  in  front  of  Mendenhall. 

"  Thank  you ;  I  have  no  use  for  it  at  present,"  said 
Mendenhall,  imperturbably. 

"  Will  you  oblige  me  with  yours  ? "  demanded  the 
other. 

"With  pleasure,"  Mendenhall   answered,  taking  a 
card  from  his  case  and  handing  it  up  over  his  shoulder 
without  looking  at  the  angry  gentleman,  who  took 
it  very  ceremoniously,  but  saying  satirically, 
"  It  lacks  an  address,  sir." 

Mendeuhall  named  his  hotel,  whereupon  the  gentle- 
man, declaring  that  he  had  the  honour  to  bid  his 
adversary  good-night,  withdrew  with  much  dignity 
to  another  position  at  the  table,  where  he  carefully 
inscribed  the  address  on  the  card. 

No  one  besides  Blakemore  gave  any  attention  to 
the  incident  or  seemed  to  lift  eyes  from  the  cloth. 
The  gaming-table  is  the  one  arc  of  the  sociological 
circle  at  which  the  gathered  particles  preserve  an 
incurious  individuality.  To  mind  one's  own  business 
is  the  exclusive  occupation  of  this  the  only  practicable 
democracy.  But  Blakemore  was  seriously  disturbed, 
perhaps  owing  to  an  insufficient  interest  in  the  game, 
and  in  deference  to  his  solicitude,  Mendenhall  soon 

162 


MANDERS 

after  arose,  not  much  the  gainer  by  the  evening's 
industry.     As  they  were  putting  on  their  overcoats, 
Blakemore  said,  lapsing  into  a  southernism, — 
"  Well,  I  reckon  you  are  in  for  it." 
"  Oh !  I  don't  know,"  Mendenhall  answered,  smil- 
ing; "that  was  Count  Vasselli.     He  has  a  mania  for 
collecting  cards,  I  believe.     If  he  doesn't  forget  the 
episode   by  morning  he   will  probably   send   me  an 
apology,  accompanied  by  an   invitation   to  eat  spa- 
ghette  with  him.     In  any  event,  you  needn't  have 
any  concern  on  my  account.     I  fence  rather  well" 
When  they  got  into  the  street  there  were  no  cabs 
in  sight,  but  being  in  the  vein  for  a  smart  walk  to 
the  hotel,  they  pushed  along  with  little  better  light 
than  the  paling  fires  of  the  morning  stars.     They 
were  crossing  into  one  of  the  narrow,  winding,  dark 
streets  running  at  right  angles  with  the  Corso,  when, 
experience  common    enough   to    belated   pedestrians 
through  the  meaner  quarters  of    Home,  they  were 
suddenly  set  upon  by  a  half-dozen  zealous  but  un- 
reasoning ruffians,  unlearned   in   the  hitting  power 
of  two  physically-trained  Anglo-Saxons  with  a  pre- 
judice against  highway  robbery.     Several  minutes  of 
persistent  demonstration  were  necessary  to  convince 
the  thoughtless  aggressors  of  their  want  of  judgment, 
but  even  then  it  was  the  chance  appearance  of  two  of 
the  constabulary  rather  than  the  force  of  blows  that 
determined  their  flight. 

"  Rather  lively,  eh  ? "  said  Mendenhall,  laughing,  as 
their  assailants  made  away. 

163 


MANDERS 

"  Yes.    Did  you  get  hurt  ? " 

"  No,  I  think  not,  though  one  of  them  gave  me  a 
sharp  thump  in  the  side  that  I  felt  for  a  moment." 

The  officers  were  less  disposed  to  pursue  the  fugi- 
tives than  to  question  suspiciously  the  victims  of  the 
assault.  In  the  midst  of  answering  their  excited 
inquiries,  Mendenhall  grasped  Blakemore's  shoulder, 
exclaiming, — 

"  By  George,  old  fellow  !  I've  got  a  queerish  sen- 
sation! You  would  better  take  hold  of  me." 

And  not  only  Blakemore  had  need  to  take  hold  of 
him,  for,  with  some  jocular  protests  against  being 
made  the  butt  of  a  peculiarly  feminine  artifice  he 
presently  slipped  into  unconsciousness ;  and  the  officers 
became  aware  that  they  had  neglected  a  rare  chance 
to  distinguish  themselves  in  a  chase  after  assassins. 

"  Well,  doctor  ?  "  Blakemore  asked  anxiously  at  the 
hotel  half  an  hour  later,  as  the  surgeon  turned  from 
dressing  Mendenhall's  wound. 

"A  serious  case,"  replied  the  doctor,  shaking  his 
head.  "But  I  think  it  will  be  all  right.  Any  re- 
latives— any  women  here?" 

"  No."  But  he  thought  of  Mrs  Storey  and  Florence. 
The  idea  of  either  of  them  in  a  sickroom  struck  him 
as  being  painfully  grotesque. 

But  ministering  angels  are  to  be  had  for  hire 
in  these  forward  days  of  systematised  pursuits,  and 
there  was  no  danger  that  Mendenhall  would  lack 
for  suitable  care. 

Mendenhall  himself  said  to  the  surgeon,— 


MANDERS 

"Is  there  any  hope  of  pulling  me  through?" 

"  Every  hope,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Then  send  no  word  to  my  family  as  long  as  you 
have  a  hope." 

Happily,  hope  is  a  virtue  easy  to  be  entreated,  and 
there  came  no  need  for  the  message  home.  Menden- 
hall  had  a  constitutional  right  to  recovery,  which 
he  exercised  with  heroism,  and  mended  apace.  After 
the  crisis  was  past  there  came  flowers  and  messages 
from  the  Storeys,  and  then  came  the  Storeys 
themselves. 

"I  don't  care  what  people  say,"  Miss  Florence 
urged  against  her  mother's  conventional  objections. 
"  People's  opinions  are  much  too  silly  for  one  to 
bother  oneself  about.  Mr  Mendenhall  is  a  friend  and 
among  strangers.  If  by  reading  to  him  or  talking 
with  him  an  hour  or  two  a  day  I  can  help  along  his 
getting  well,  it  is  my  duty  to  do  it ;  and  I'll  make  it 
my  pleasure,  too." 

"Very  well,"  Mrs  Storey  assented  at  last,  shrug- 
ging her  shoulders,  but  consoling  herself  with  the 
possibility  that  "something  may  come  of  it."  The 
fact  that  an  able-bodied  and  youngish  heir  to  great 
expectations  had  been  so  suddenly  and  so  vulgarly 
brought  near  to  the  end  of  things  instructed  her 
anew  that  time  is  measured  by  incidents  rather 
than  by  duration,  and  that  it  is  the  part  of  wisdom 
to  make  hay  when  the  sun  shines.  This  vein  of 
philosophical  reflection  led  her  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  accident  to  Mendenhall  was  a  providential 

I6S 


MANDERS 

interposition  that  promised  to  correct  that  obliquity 
of  mind  in  Florence  which  seemed  to  prefer  a 
commonplace  dabbler  in  oils  to  a  prospective  peer. 
She  found  it  convenient  to  superintend  the  daily 
visits  that  were  drawing  nigh  unto  intimacy,  and 
imagined  that  she  detected  symptoms  altogether 
flattering  to  her  hopes.  If  it  were  not  for  the 
unbalancing  presence  of  Blakemore,  she  thought 
there  could  be  no  reasonable  doubt  as  to  the  out- 
come of  relations  so  romantically  fostered.  Perhaps, 
within  the  circumstances,  it  was  in  a  measure  pardon- 
able if  her  maternal  sentiments  gave  an  exultant 
bound  when,  the  morning  after  Mendenhall's  first 
venture  out  for  a  carriage  ride,  Blakemore  came 
agitatedly  to  tell  her  and  Florence  that  he  was  off 
to  catch  the  first  American  steamer,  a  cable  message 
having  notified  him  of  his  father's  probably  fatal 
illness.  Judge  Blakemore,  being  an  estimable  gentle- 
man and  one  of  the  justices  of  the  Supreme  Court  of 
her  country,  had  always  enjoyed  Mrs  Storey's  respect 
and  admiration,  and  perhaps  had  been  allowed  some 
share  in  her  sincere  regard ;  but  she  felt  that  he  had 
never  done  anything  so  graceful  as  timing  his  demise 
to  suit  her  purposes,  so  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
genuineness  in  the  sympathetic  tears  with  which 
she  bade  the  son  good-bye.  Walter  was  one  of  the 
surviving  examples  of  that  perhaps  fortunately 
almost  extinct  species  of  young  gentlemen  who  sub- 
missively reverenced  and  loved  their  begetters,  and 
grief  at  parting  with  Florence  was  not  the  chief 

166 


MANDERS 

burden  of  his  heart.  The  young  lady  easily  dis- 
cerned her  disadvantage  at  the  moment,  but, 
strangely  enough,  she  put  it  under  most  favourable 
interpretation.  He  parted  from  her  in  Mrs  Storey's 
presence,  and  the  only  sign  between  them  was  that 
Florence  held  out  to  him  the  hand  on  which  sparkled 
the  ring  he  had  given  her. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

As  he  was  leaving  the  hotel,  after  having  tipped  in 
the  proper  mathematical  ratio  the  army  of  servants 
summoned  to  witness  his  departure,  Blakemore  was 
handed  a  letter  from  Miss  Warley.  No  one,  perhaps, 
has  attempted  to  ascertain  why  spinsters  who  ap- 
proach middle  age  are  so  much  more  conscientious 
than  the  rest  of  the  world,  though  every  one  is 
pleasantly  or  painfully,  according  to  conditions, 
aware  of  the  fact.  Miss  Warley  was  even 
punctilious,  and  she  conceived  it  to  be  her  duty, 
as  a  beneficiary  of  Blakemore's  bounty,  to  make 
and  forward  a  monthly  memorandum  of  whatever 
concerned  the  musical  progress  or  personal  welfare 
of  Manders.  These  reports  were  mere  memoranda, 
for  Miss  Warley  was  restrained  by  a  nice  sense  of 
feminine  propriety  from  entering  into  anything  in 
the  nature  of  a  friendly  correspondence  with  a 
young  man  who  might  be  equal  to  the  misinter- 
pretation of  purely  disinterested  motives.  Blake- 
more  opened  the  letter  as  he  drove  to  the  station, 
and  read  the  usual  approbation  of  Manders,  there 

being  nothing  in  the   report  itself   to  justify  the 
1 68 


MANDERS 

writing.  A  postscript,  however,  interested  him  in 
one  of  its  sentences. 

"I  have  done  aa  you  requested  about  the  piano. 
I  got  a  very  suitable  one  for  four  hundred  francs. 
I  told  Madame  Manders  it  was  one  I  got  at  a 
bargain,  and  begged  her  to  take  care  of  it  for  me. 
She,  by  the  way,  coughs  in  a  way  I  don't  like.  She 
caught  a  cold  two  or  three  months  ago,  that  hangs  on 
most  stubbornly.  She  laughs  when  I  speak  about  it, 
and  says  it  doesn't  trouble  her  at  all  Perhaps  it 
is  nothing." 

The  pulling  up  of  the  cab  at  the  station  roused 
Blakemore  from  a  reverie,  and  he  smiled  to  remember 
the  absurdity  of  it.  He  had  been  building  all  sorts 
of  inconsequential  fancies  around  that  cough  of 
Marie's,  as  if  a  cough  were  something  new  under 
the  sun.  And  Marie  might  pose  for  the  goddess 
Hygeia  herself. 

Someone  called  to  him.  Mendenhall  was  sitting  in 
a  cab  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  platform. 

"You  didn't  expect  to  see  me  here?  I  drove 
out  as  far  as  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella  after 
bidding  you  good-bye,  when  I  recollected  that  I 
hadn't  paid  you  off  as  nurse.  I  want  you  to 
wear  this." 

He  took  a  pin  from  his  cravat  as  he  spoke  and 
gave  it  to  Blakemore.  It  was  a  moonstone  in  an 
old-fashioned,  curious  setting  with  small  diamonds, 

"My  grandfather  picked  it  up  somewhere  in 
India,  I  believe  it  belonged  to  a  rajah  who 

ife 


MANDERS 

afterwards  died  some  sort  of  death.  There  is  no 
end  of  bad  luck  goes  with  a  moonstone.  Every- 
body who  has  anything  to  do  with  one  is  bound 
to  die  soon  or  late.  I  hope  you  are  thoroughly 
superstitious  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  said  Blakemore,  as  he  put  the  pin  in  his 
own  cravat,  "so  I'll  have  to  buy  the  point  of  this, 
you  know.  There  is  your  money,"  giving  Menden- 
hall  a  two  lire  piece. 

Mendenhall  thought  him  rather  serious. 

"  By  George  !  I  believe  you  are  superstitious  1 " 
he  said,  laughing. 

Blakemore  smiled.  "  I'll  take  my  chances,"  he 
said. 

But  he  imagined  that  he  had  excellent  reason  to 
be  disturbed  in  mind  by  this  simple  and  apparently 
very  friendly  incident.  This  pin  and  a  ring  were 
the  only  ornaments  worn  by  Mendenhall,  and  the 
one  was  as  much  identified  with  him  as  the  other. 
Blakemore  now  recalled  a  remark  made  by  Florence 
in  commenting  upon  Mendenhall's  evident  fondness 
for  the  pin. 

"I  could  never  many  a  man  who  owned  a 
moonstone." 

He  thought  it  singular  that  this  disfavoured 
object  should  be  made  a  gift  to  him  at  this  par- 
ticular time,  and  he  argued  from  it  to  conclusions 
not  in  the  least  agreeable.  He  could  not  see  i.n  it 
the  chance  offering  of  an  amiable  spirit;  he  recog- 
nised only  a  purpose  on  Mendenhall's  part  to  get 

170 


MANDERS 

rid  of  something  to  which  Florence  affected  an 
aversion.  Clearly  enough  Florence  had  expressed 
her  prejudices  to  Mendenhall  himself.  The  question 
in  Blakemore's  mind  was  of  MendenhalPs  motive  in 
giving  the  pin  to  him.  Was  it  the  act  of  a  con- 
scious rival  who  supposed  his  purpose  could  not  be 
suspected,  or  was  Mendenhall  deceived  by  a  belief 
that  he  occupied  a  preferred  place  in  Florence's 
esteem?  Blakemore  was  not  long  in  forming  the 
opinion  that  Mendenhall  was  a  man  incapable  of 
duplicity  in  his  professed  friendships  with  men;  and 
this  conviction  forced  him  to  the  inference  that 
Florence  was  not  above  playing  fast-and-loose  with 
more  than  one  heart  at  a  time.  Yet  Florence  was 
audacious  in  her  candour.  And  had  she  given  him 
any  right  to  feel  an  exclusive^'  claim  to  her  devo- 
tion? Was  not  the  understanding  between  them 
one  that  left  them  both  free  to  form  such  attach- 
ments as  should  best  please  them  in  the  course  of 
two  years?  He  ended  by  acquitting  both  Menden- 
hall and  Florence,  without  greatly  consoling  himself. 

"  I've  half  a  mind  to  make  a  trip  to  your  country 
myself,"  said  Mendenhall,  as  they  parted  "Don't 
be  surprised  if  I  walk  in  on  you  some  fine  morning." 
He  had  left  the  cab,  and,  leaning  on  a  stick,  was 
walking  beside  Blakemore,  not  much  the  worse  for 
his  illness." 

"  You  will  always  find  the  latch-string  outside  the 
door,"  Blakemore  responded  warmly.  "  And  I  think 
you  owe  it  to  yourself  to  come.  A  man  cannot 


MANDERS 

appreciate  civilisation  until  he  has  visited  the  United 
States." 

"  One  can  take  that  remark  either  way,"  Menden- 
hall  said,  laughingly. 

"  Take  it  the  right  way,"  laughed  Blakemore. 

They  talked  purposelessly  until  the  voyagers  were 
requested  to  take  their  places. 

"Any  final  message  for  the  ladies?"  Mendenhall 
asked,  as  the  guard  closed  the  carriage  door.  Blake- 
more  considered  a  moment. 

"  Yes,  tell  Miss  Storey  that  you  have  given  me  your 
moonstone,"  he  said,  with  a  droll  expression  not  easy 
to  interpret. 

w  A  singular  message ! "  Mendenhall  thought,  watch- 
ing the  train  pull  away.  "I  wonder  if  he  knows? 
Rather  awkward  if  he  does.  What  the  deuce 
prompted  me  to  give  it  him  ?  Perhaps  he  and 
Florence^  By  George,  I'll  find  out !  " 

He  returned  to  his  cab,  giving  the  driver  the 
address  of  the  Storeys. 

Mrs  Storey  and  Florence  were  engaged  in  one  of 
those  largely  one-sided  talks  which  Mrs  Storey  styled 
"  a  little  friendly  conversation,"  consisting  of  maternal 
views  oratorically  declaimed  and  filial  interruptions 
not  always  reverential.  Naturally  enough,  Mrs  Storey 
was  relieving  her  mind  of  the  burden  of  thoughts 
which  sprang  spontaneously  out  of  her  satisfaction  in 
being  delivered  of  Blakemore's  depressing  presence. 
She  was  a  firm  believer  in  the  curative  power  of 
absence  over  the  disorders  of  the  feminine  heart,  but 


MANDERS 

did  not  attach  enough  importance  to  the  contributory 
virtues  of  a  still  tongue.  In  her  moral  pharmacopoeia 
insistence  was  everything,  and  to  "  hammer  away  "  at 
a  given  idea  was  to  ensure  its  efficacy.  Florence 
evidently  was  predisposed  to  think  too  well  of  Blake- 
more.  The  remedy,  then,  lay  in  the  urgency  of 
Blakemore's  special  and  general  demerits.  Mrs  Storey 
had  been  inspired  to  describe  him  as  "  a  flaccid  young 
man,"  and  the  phrase  seemed  to  her  so  apposite  that 
she  coddled  it  in  all  the  variations  of  the  thesaurus. 
Florence  was  trifling  with  the  keys  of  the  piano, 
rather  more  interested  in  the  graceful  use  of  her 
fingers  than  conscious  of  the  piece  she  was  slighting, 
and  not  strictly  attentive  to  her  mother.  Her  peace* 
fnl  acceptance  of  the  eloquence  in  depreciation  of  the 
supposed  object  of  her  inclination  was  gratifying  to 
Mrs  Storey  as  the  evidence  of  a  successful  treatment, 
and  the  amiable  lady  was  encouraged  to  emphasise 
her  criticisms. 

"  The  long  and  short  of  it  is,"  she  said,  "  that  he 
lacks  intellectual  stamina." 

"  That,  is  not  it,"  interrupted  Florence ;  "  he  has  too 
much  sensibility.  He  has  not  yet  got  rid  of  all  of  his 
conscientious  scruples." 

"  Fiddlesticks !  "  exclaimed  Mrs  Storey.  "  He  is  an 
emotional  weather-vane,  that  whirls  from  one  senti- 
mental point  of  the  compass  to  another  with  every 
change  of  circumstance.  He  has  neither  stability  of 
purpose  nor  fixity  of  idea,  and  no  more  intelligent 
ambition  than  a  caterpillar.  I  don't  believe  he  will 

»73 


MANDERS 

ever  amount  to  a  row  of  pins.     He  is  one  of  the  men 
you  can  lead  about  by  the  nose  as  they  do  donkeys." 

"An  excellent  quality  in  a  husband,  don't  you 
think,  mamma?  You  have  had  a  pleasant  experi- 
ence, I  should  say." 

"  You  are  unkind,  Florence,  to  twit  me  with  your 
father's  infirmities !  I  didn't  make  the  man !  But 
though  I  have  learned  to  make  the  best  of  a  difficult 
position,  I  have  no  wish  to  see  you  subjected  to  the 
like  conditions.  I  am  giving  you  the  benefit  of  my 
experience  in  advising  you  how  to  avoid  my  mistakes. 
Nothing  could  grieve  me  so  much  as  seeing  you  married 
to  one  of  those  domestic  animals  who  think  their 
petty  orbit  makes  the  circumference  of  the  universe." 

"  Then  you  don't  think  Mr  Mendenhall  is  a '  domestic 
animal '  ? " 

"  Not  of  the  ruminating  variety.  But  I  don't  see 
why  you  need  be  frivolous.  I  am  not  thinking  of 
men  as  mere  men.  I  suppose  in  that  respect  one  is 
as  good  or  as  bad  as  another.  But  I  am  thinking  of 
them  in  their  relation  to  Society  as  units  or  ciphers, 
and  I  positively  revolt  against  the  idea  of  being  made 
the  mother-in-law  of  a  cipher.  Walter  Blakemore  is 
not  only  a  cipher ;  he  has  the  minus  sign  in  front  of 
him  as  well.  Mr  Mendenhall  fills  the  eye  quite  as 
commandingly,  and  has  a  place  in  the  world  already 
prepared  for  him.  He  is  somebody.  There  is  no 
comparison  between  them.  One  is  scarcely  a  possi- 
bility, the  other  is  a  fact;  one  is  a  gentleman  by 
sufferance,  the  other  by  an  ancestral  patent  of 

174 


MANDERS 

nobility;  one  may  get  so  far  as  to  be  a  tolerable 
painter  of  miniatures,  the  other  will  in  all  probability 
be  a  peer  and  able  to  hire  painters  as  he  needs  them ; 
one  can  keep  you  struggling  in  the  social  crush,  the 
other  would  lift  you  above  the  mob;  but  I  don't 
insist  on  Mr  Mendenhall,  if  you  are  able  to  do  better. 
I  don't  care  to  pick  out  the  man ;  I  only  stipulate  for 
position." 

"  And  happiness,  mamma  ?  " 

"  Bah  !  the  happy  woman  is  the  envied  woman.  I 
wish  you  would  study  life  instead  of  reading  novels. 
The  sentimental  twaddlers  who  write  books  are 
responsible  for  nine-tenths  of  the  married  misery. 
They  stuff  foolish  heads  full  of  insipid  romance,  and 
make  girls  believe  that  marriage  is  a  sort  of  Virginia 
reel,  in  which  one  is  always  grinning  at  her  partner. 
Marriage  should  be  an  exact  science  based  on  careful 
calculation,  and  the  happy  marriages  are  practical 
ones,  in  which  sentiment  is  an  after  consideration  or 
no  consideration  at  all." 

Florence  rose  from  the  piano  with  a  laugh  as  the 
bell  rang. 

"  You  are  delicious,  mamma !  What  a  pity  you  are 
not  at  the  head  of  a  girls'  boarding-school !  What 
sport  you  could  have  with  the  affinities.  And  I 
suppose  you  would  end  by  becoming  an  advocate  of 
polyandry.  What  a  triumph  for  woman  when  she 
can  have  an  assortment  of  variously  distinguished 
husbands,  ranging  from  a  dissipated  duke  to  a  rising 
theologian." 

US 


MANDERS 

"Sometimes,  Florence,  you*  ideas  ate  positively 
indecent,"  said  Mrs  Storey,  severely. 

Mendenhall  was  shown  in,  to  the  surprise  of  both 
ladies,  who  thought  it  imprudent  of  him  to  be  driving 
out  alone  so  soon  after  being  set  free  of  the  doctor's 
care. 

"I  ato  quite  myself  again,"  he  insisted.  "In  fact 
I  was  kept  in  a  week  longer  than  was  necessary. 
These  Italian  doctors  don't  know  much  about  English 
Constitutions.  I  only  carry  a  stick  to  oblige  the  old 
medico,  who  would  feel  chagrined  if  I  made  the  case 
less  serious  than  he  thought  it  was." 

"It  is  so  strange  they  don't  catch  the  scoundrels 
who  did  it,"  Mrs  Storey  ventured. 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  they  haven't  caught  them,"  said 
Mendenhall,  smiling.  "  I  was  pretty  certain  of  one  of 
the  chaps  they  brought  in  for  me  to  look  at  the  other 
day;  but  I've  known  so  many  cases  of  mistaken 
identity  that  I  gave  the  poor  devil  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt,  and  they  let  him  go." 

"To  do  better  next  time,  with  &  longer  knife," 
Florence  suggested. 

"  You  are  uncommonly  tender-hearted,  Mr  Menden- 
hall," Mrs  Storey  said,  bestowing  a  look  of  benevolent 
approval  upon  him. 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  Mendenhall  answered,  giving  an 
emphatic  though  slight  side  jerk  of  the  head  to  in- 
dicate his  seriousness.  "  I  am  of  rather  a  vindictive 
turn  of  mind.  I  find  a  great  deal  of  keen  pleasure 
in  getting  the  better  of  my  enemies,  and  I  have  no 

if* 


MANDERS 

objection  whatever  to  grinding  my  heel  into  the 
head  of  a  reptile  that  may  get  in  my  path.  Bat  J 
do  not  believe  that  every  man  with  criminal  apti- 
tudes is  really  a  criminal,  or  that  every  hang^dog- 
looking  ruffian  is  necessarily  an  assassin.  Then, 
to  be  candid  with  you,  I  hate  the  tedious  processes 
and  lingering  stupidities  of  French  and  Italian  courts 
of  law,  and  I  would  rather  my  assailant  should 
go  scot-free  than  that  I  should  have  to  go  through 
the  worry  of  the  prosecution.  As  it  is,  the  police 
seem  to  be  acting  on  the  theory  that  I  am  the 
guilty  party,  and  Mr  Blakemore,  in  going  away,  is 
really  a  fugitive  from  justice." 

They  laughed  with  him,  and  presently  Mrs  Storey, 
chattering  something  about  wine  and  biscuit  for  an 
invalid,  went  out  to  give  some  orders,  forgetting, 
perhaps,  that  a  bell-rope  dangled  within  reach  of 
the  chair  in  which  she  had  been  sitting. 

"1  came  to  have  a  talk  with  you  alone,"  Menden- 
hall  said  promptly  as  the  door  closed  after  Mrs 
Storey. 

"That  was  very  nice  of  you,"  Florence  said, 
smiling,  and  taking  a  chair  nearer  to  him.  *  Have 
you  anything  especially  interesting  to  say?" 

"That  depends  upon  how  you  take  it,  I  am 
going  to  be  very  blunt  about  it."  His  manner  was 
more  earnest  than  she  thought  it  needed  to  be. 

"You  usually  are.  What  you  say  has  the  merit 
of  being  easily  understood," 

He  came  to  the  point  at  once. 
M 


MANDERS 

"I  want  to  know  if  there  is  anything  between 
you  and  Mr  Blakemore  ? "  He  leaned  forward  a 
little,  his  forearm  on  his  knee. 

"Decidedly  you  are  blunt  about  it!  and  just  a 
bit  impudent,  too,  aren't  you  ?  Suppose  I  decline 
to  admit  your  right  to  ask  me  such  a  question?" 

"  That  would  be  n  sufficient  answer,"  he  said, 
sitting  erect  again. 

Florence  laughed.  He  was  allowing  her  a  glimpse 
of  an  unsuspected  amusing  side  of  his  character. 
Jealousy  in  a  strong,  well-balanced  man  of  the  world 
was  an  entertaining  abnormity.  She  had  not  fore- 
seen anything  so  interesting  in  the  make-up  of  one 
whom  she  had  always  found  self-contained  and 
complacent.  She  deployed  those  feminine  artifices 
of  attitude  and  look  which  are  supposed  to  put 
the  reasoning  masculine  mind  at  ft  disadvantage. 
The  attack  seductive  is  a  manoeuvre  to  be  counter- 
acted only  when  amour-propre  is  conscious  of  a 
social  obligation  to  be  respected.  Merely  personal 
defences  amount  to  nothing,  for  the  man  most  griev- 
ously abused  or  most  indignantly  fired  by  feminine 
disloyalty  or  caprice  is  as  wax  to  flame  under  the 
propitiatory  blandishments  of  a  beloved  strategist. 

Florence,  quite  ignorant  of  the  provocation,  felt  a 
pleasure  in  the  lowering  look  with  which  Menden- 
hall  regarded  her,  and  prepared  for  an  agreeable 
skirmish  that  should  make  her  undisputed  mistress 
of  the  situation.  She  had  not  before  given  much 
thought  to  the  conquest  of  Mendenhall. 

178 


MANDERS 

•*  Why  do  you  ask  1 "  she  asked,  looking  sidewise  at 
him  and  toying  with  a  flower  in  her  belt. 

"  Because  I  am  not  the  sort  of  man  to  use  a  friend 
as  a  shuttlecock  ! " 

Not  at  all  the  answer  expected.  It  lacked  the 
necessary  element  of  personal  grievance,  and  Florence 
was  taken  aback.  She  raised  her  head  and  her  smile 
gave  way  to  a  serious,  possibly  a  resentful  expression. 
She  realised  at  once  that  the  case  was  not  one  of 
simple  jealous  and  corrective  pastime. 

"  I  don't  think  I  understand  you,"  she  said.  "  Be 
good  enough  to  explain  your  meaning." 

"Will  you  tell  me  if  Mr  Blakemore  is  anything 
more  to  you  than  a  family  friend  ? " 

"  Will  you  tell  me  how  that  question  concerns  you?" 

"  I  gave  Blakemore  my  moonstone  at  the  station ! " 

"Well?" 

She  raised  her  eyebrows,  looking  at  him,  surprised 
and  expectant.  She  seemed  in  no  way  overwhelmed. 
There  were  no  indications  of  detected  guiltiness.  If 
there  was  anything  more  than  bewilderment  in  her 
eyes,  it  was  a  glint  of  sarcasm  that  seemed  to  convict 
him  of  some  folly.  Nothing  more  exasperates  a  man 
than  a  suspicion  that  he  has  made  a  fool  of  himself  in 
a  woman's  eyes  at  the  moment  when  he  thought  to 
be  most  commanding.  Mendenhall  felt  that  he  had 
made  a  mistake. 

"Perhaps  I  haven't  begun  in  the  right  way,"  he 
said,  unwilling  to  yield,  yet  speaking  in  an  apologetic 
tone.  "  I  may  have  given  importance  to  a  trifle,  but 

179 


MANDE;RS 

I  came  here  believing  that  you  had— ^well,  made  it 
possible  fop  me  to — to  insult  Mr  Blakemore." 

Florence  rose,  looked  at  him  an  instant  and  turned 
toward  the  door.  Mendenhall  sprang  up,  stepped 
ahead  of  her,  and  held  his  hand  out  deprecatingly. 

"Don't  go.  Not  until  I  have  made  myself  clear. 
You  needn't  forgive  me,  but  &t  least  understand  me. 
I  can  make  it  plain  in  a  word— I  love  you." 

He  »ade  no  offer  to  touch  her.  There  was  quite 
enough  passionate  earnestness  in  his  voice,  quite 
enpugh  eagerness  in  his  face,  but  Blakemore  and  he 
had  become  friends,  and  the  incident  at  the  station 
was  npt  yet  explained. 

"  That  justifies  everything,  of  course."  She  smiled 
as  she  spoke,  and  turned  back  to  the  chair  on  which 
she  had  been  sitting.  "  Well,  what  is  the  offence  for 
which  you  wish  to  chastise  me  ?  I  believe  you  said 
something  about  a  shuttlecock.  Am  I  one  of  the 
battledores,  or  have  I  been  one  of  the  players  ?  And 
what  is  the  great  solemnity  attached  to  the  giving 
away  of  a  moonstone  ?  And  please  sit  down ;  I  don't 
like  looking  up  so  high." 

He  did  as  she  directed,  saying,  as  he  seated  himself, 
"  I  remember  your  saying  to  me  that  yon  would  never 
marry  a  man  with  a  moonstone." 

w  Oh !  I  say  no  end  of  silly  things,  Mr  Mendenhall. 
I  hope  you  are  not  ungenerous  enough  to  keep  a 
record  of  them." 

"And  you  must  have  said  the  same  thing  to  Mr 
Blak0more." 

ife 


MANDERS 

"Possibly.  I  can't  always  be  original  in  my 
remarks.  You  know  there  are  no  new  ideas,  and 
we  must  content  ourselves  with  rearrangements  of 
old  ones.  Probably  I  did  not  say  it  to  Mr  Blakemore 
in  precisely  the  same  way  as  I  said  it  to  you." 

"  I  took  that  for  granted,  for  you  were  jesting  with 
me,  but  Blakemore's  expression,  when  I  gave  him  the 
pin,  leads  me  to  believe  that  you  have  been  in  earnest 
with  him.  Have  you  ? " 

"  And  if  I  have,  what  then  ?" 

"  I  shall  quit  Rome  to-morrow  and  send  a  telegram 
to  Blakemore's  boat  telling  him  of  the  fact." 

"  How  moyen  age  !  And  if  I  have  been  no  more  in 
earnest  with  him  than  with  you  ? " 

"  I  should  not  think  it  necessary  to  go." 

"  You  may  as  well  stay,  if  you  have  no  other  reason 
for  going." 

Her  smile  was  perplexing,  but  he  put  an  interpre- 
tation on  it,  and  made  an  impulsive  movement  to 
take  her  hand. 

"Do  you  mean — "  he  began,  but  she  stood  up 
laughingly,  and  keeping  her  hand  from  him. 

"  Don't  let  your  habit  of  taking  things  for  granted 
mislead  you  again,  Mr  Mendenhall.  I  have  not  bid 
you  stop  in  Rome." 

"  But  I  have  told  you  that  I  love  you.  If  you  are 
free,  if  Blakemore  has  no  claim  upon  you — "  He  was 
standing  in  front  of  her,  and  held  out  his  arms  as  if 
to  clasp  them  about  her. 

"Really,  Mr  Mendenhall,"  she  said,  stepping  back 
tat 


MANDERS 

from  him,  "  your  solicitude  for  Mr  Blakemore  seems 
to  allow  me  but  a  poor  place  in  your  opinion.  One 
can  hardly  be  flattered  by  a  love  that  is  subordinate 
to  a  friendship  for  another  man." 

"  You  wouldn't  care  for  a  love  that  took  no  account 
of  honour,"  he  said  urgently,  coming  nearer  to  her. 

"  I  should  doubt  the  genuineness  of  a  love  that  took 
account  of  consequences,"  she  replied,  something  of  a 
challenge  in  her  eyes.  "  I  think  you  are  better  fitted 
to  play  the  rdle  of  a  friend  than  that  of  the  lover." 

"Florence!"  He  caught  her  impetuously  by  the 
arms. 

"  I  hear  my  mother,"  she  said,  releasing  herself,  and 
moving  away  from  him. 

The  door  opened  and  Mrs  Storey  entered.  Her 
quick,  calculating  eyes  took  in  the  situation  at  a 
glance.  Florence  was  self-possessed  and  ready; 
Mendenhall  was  disconcerted  and  awkward. 

"  I  have  come  a  little  too  soon,"  Mrs  Storey  com- 
plained to  herself. 


SM 


CHAPTER   XIV 

AN  opportunity  to  renew  the  conversation  so  un- 
timely interrupted  did  not  soon  present  itself ;  more 
accurately  speaking,  Florence  carefully  avoided  or 
nullified  the  occasions  with  which  fortune  and  Mrs 
Storey  were  disposed  to  favour  MendenhalL  If  the 
two  were  left  alone  together,  as  inevitably  happened 
now  and  again,  Florence  launched  into  such  imper- 
tinent talk  as  would  have  made  the  introduction 
of  a  sentimental  subject  ridiculous  from  Mendenhall's 
point  of  view.  In  his  opinion,  love-making  with  a 
matrimonial  objective  was  a  momentous  affair. 
Light-witted  campaigning  he  reserved  for  quite 
another  phase  of  the  passion,  and  he  would  have 
imagined  himself  wanting  in  delicacy  were  he  to 
arrest  mental  frivolity  with  a  heart  emotion.  He 
lent  himself  wholly  to  Florence's  moods,  but  at  the 
same  time  he  assured  himself  that  he  was  making 
progress  with  her,  and  that  circumstances  would 
fashion  a  suitable  hour  for  the  reward  of  his 
patience.  Satisfied  that  he  was  obliged  to  no 
chivalrous  restraint  in  Blakemore's  behalf,  he  was 
in  no  haste  to  have  his  own  amatory  status  defined, 
finding  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  the  torments  of  un- 


MANDERS 

certainty.  Florence,  as  a  problem  in  possibilities, 
had,  for  him,  a  stimulating  fascination  that  he 
feared  might  disappear  with  the  establishment  of 
a  positive  understanding  between  them;  so  he 
continued  on  "dawdling,"  as  Mrs  Storey  said  to 
herself  with  some  irritation. 

Blakemore  had  been  gone  six  weeks,  and  spring 
had  come  in  with  a  rush  that  had  splashed  the  young 
verdure  of  Rome  with  great  patches  of  white  and 
yellow  and  purple  blossom,  and  filled  the  soft  air 
with  the  rich  perfume  of  the  great  stone  pines.  The 
three  had  come  for  a  morning  stroll  through  the 
extensive  and  picturesquely  beautiful  grounds  of  the 
Villa  Borghese,  animated  by  hundreds  of  people 
joyous  in  the  sunshine  or  in  the  already  welcome 
shadows  of  the  trees.  There  is  a  secluded  fountain 
with  great  circular  stone  basin,  whose  moss-grown  rim 
rises  waist-high  above  the  ground,  its  water,  dark 
under  the  shading  trees,  seeming  to  have  an  un- 
fathomable depth.  Centuries  were  necessary,  one 
would  imagine,  to  give  the  fountain  its  appearance 
of  solemn  antiquity,  but  Mendenhall,  leaning  over 
the  basin  and  swishing  his  stick  in  the  water,  said, — 

"  How  like  the  Italians !  Having  destroyed  pretty 
much  everything  that  was  really  old  in  Rome,  they 
construct  these  shams  to  trick  the  imagination." 

"But  they  are  not  shams,"  insisted  Florence. 
M  What  difference  does  it  make  how  old  or  how  new 
they  are,  if  they  fill  the  purpose  of  beauty  and  fit  in 
with  the  romance  of  the  scene?  I've  no  patience 

184 


MANDERS 

with  you  stupid  people  who  get  all  your  enthusiasms 
out  of  dates,  and  affect  such  a  precious  scorn  of  the 
modern.  Your  enthusiasms  are  not  enthusiasms  at 
all,  but  gushing  echoes  of  somebody  else's  worked-up 
extravagances." 

"  Then  I  suppose  the  Coliseum — "  Mendenhall  began 
smilingly. 

"  That  isn't  the  same  sort  of  thing  at  all,"  Florence 
interrupted.  "  It  is  the  imposing,  awful  majesty  of 
the  thing  itself,  plus  our  knowledge  of  the  fearful  and 
splendid  uses  to  which  it  was  put,  and  not  its  age,  that 
inspire  and  thrill  us.  If  it  were  a  question  of  age, 
you  would  better  fall  down  and  worship  the  hill 
behind  it,  which  I  dare  say  is  some  thousands  of  yeare 
older.  Do  you  love  the  Venus  of  Milo  because  it  is 
old  and  battered,  or  because  it  is  incomparably 
beautiful  in  spite  of  being  old  and  battered?" 

"  Well,  for  a  little  of  both,  I  think.  I  am  not  sure,  but 
I  think  age  is  the  greatest  painter  of  the  beautiful." 

"  Now  that  is  a  platitude.  How  deep  do  you  think 
this  water  is  ?  " 

« I  don't  know  ;  I'll  see." 

He  put  down  his  stick  until  his  hand  was  wrist- 
deep  in  the  water. 

"  There  is  more  of  it  than  I  thought,"  he  laughed ; 
"  I'll  have  to  undo  my  cuff."  He  began  fumbling  at 
the  links.  "  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind  doing  it  for 
me?" 

He  held  out  his  dripping  hand  to  her.  Mrs  Storey 
had  wandered  some  distance  beyond  them  and  sat 

185 


MANDERS 

watching  a  group  of  picturesquely  ragged  children 
capering  for  coppers. 

"  You  needn't  take  that  trouble  about  it ;  let  me 
try ;  my  sleeve  is  loose."  She  shoved  her  sleeve 
above  her  elbow  and  reached  for  the  stick.  The  arm 
was  white  and  round  and  good  to  look  upon. 

"  The  water  is  a  little  chilly,"  he  said,  still  retaining 
his  hold  upon  the  stick. 

"  So  much  the  better ;  getting  angry  with  you  has 
made  me  warm." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  angry." 

"That  is  because  you  are  not  penetrating.  It 
always  makes  me  angry  when  I  have  to  defend  my 
opinions." 

She  thrust  the  stick  into  the  basin  and  began 
groping  for  the  bottom. 

"  Mercy  !  there  is  no  bottom  to  it !  Pull  my  sleeve 
up  higher  —  clear  to  the  shoulder.  That  will  do- 
Ooh !  how  delightful  it  is  !  I'd  like  to  plunge  in  all 
over.  What  a  good  thing  it  must  have  been  to  be  a 
nymph.  This  fountain  was  undoubtedly  made  for 
nymphs.  That  is  why  there  is  no  bottom  to  it;  if 
there  is,  I  can't  reach  it.  Is  your  arm  much  longer 
than  mine  ? " 

"  Perhaps  I  would  better  find  you  a  longer  stick." 

"  Do.  Will  it  matter  if  I  lose  hold  of  your  stick  ? 
I  came  near  doing  so." 

"  It  will  come  to  the  top  if  you  do." 

He  went  off  to  find  a  suitable  rod,  and  she  began 
amusing  herself  thrusting  the  stick  down  an4  letting 


MANDERS 

it  shoot  up  of  its  own  buoyancy,  becoming  childishly 
absorbed  in  a  pastime  to  which  excitement  was 
added  by  the  wilful  attempts  of  the  stick  to  come 
up  beyond  her  reach. 

Mendenhall  came  back  with  a  handful  of  long 
grasses.  "  Here  we  are,"  he  said,  putting  them  down 
on  the  rim  of  the  basin. 

"  What  in  the  world  is  that  for  ? " 

"  I'll  tie  these  blades  of  grass  together,  make  a  line, 
and  with  a  pebble  at  the  end  we'll  have  a  first-class 
plummet." 

"  Really,  I  believe  you  are  clever." 

"Well,  you'd  better  stop  playing  in  that  water. 
Take  my  handkerchief  and  dry  your  arm." 

"  I  suppose  mamma  would  have  a  fit  if  she  saw  me." 

She  took  the  handkerchief  he  held  to  her  and 
began  drying  her  arm  as  he  set  about  making  his 
sounding-line.  Suddenly  she  uttered  an  exclamation 
of  alarm.  Mendenhall  looked  up. 

"  What's  the  matter  ? " 

"I  have  lost  one  of  my  rings — the  one  Walter 
gave  me." 

"  The  one  '  Walter '  gave  you ! "  he  repeated,  stop- 
ping still  and  looking  hard  at  her. 

She  had  spoken  unconsciously,  but  his  manner 
restored  her  balance. 

"  I  should  have  said  lent  me ;  it  is  his,  not  mine," 
she  replied  easily,  but  there  was  more  than  the  usual 
colour  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  were  looking  on  the 
finger  where  the  ring  had  been.  "And  I  was  just 

187 


MANDERS 

going  to  send  it  back  to  him."    She  laughed  a  little 
nervously,  pulling  down  her  sleeve. 

"  So  you  were  engaged  to  Walter  Blakemore  ? "  he 
said,  with  his  teeth  set,  speaking  his  thoughts  aloud 
rather  than  addressing  the  words  to  her. 

She  looked  up  indignantly,  but  his  face  frightened 
her.  She  had  never  seen  that  sort  of  anger  in  a 
man's  face  before. 

"  You  have  dared  to  trifle  with  me,  tempting  me  to 
play  the  part  of  a  blackguard  !  "  he  went  on  brutally, 
judging  her.  "  What  kind  of  woman  are  you,  then  ? 
There  is  your  mother;  you  do  not  need  an  escort." 
He  was  turning  away. 

Her  eyes  blazed.  An  any;er  as  great  as  his  own 
flamed  and  paled  in  her  face.  His  stick  lay  on  the 
basin  ledge.  She  snatched  it  up. 

"  You  coward ! "  she  exclaimed,  and  struck  him  over 
the  shoulder.  Instantly  the  stick  fell  from  her  hand, 
and  shame  took  the  place  of  anger  in  her  cheeks.  She 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  leaned  down 
against  the  wall  of  the  fountain,  silent,  but  trembl- 
ing with  the  intensity  of  her  emotions. 

Nothing  could  have  appealed  to  Mendenhall  as  did 
that  impulsively,  passionately-struck  but  forceless 
blow.  The  fact  that  it  outraged  all  his  ideas  of 
feminine  character  and  reserve  made  the  piteousness 
of  it  the  only  thing  upon  which  his  mind  could  take 
hold,  and  he  was  conscious  of  a  rush  of  penitent 
sympathy  with  the  girl  whom  his  savage  contempt 
had  beaten  down  in  this  way.  He  looked  about  him. 

HI 


MANDERS 

Fortunately  there  were  no  spectators  of  the  incident 
The  nearest  and  only  visible  persons  were  Mrs  Storey 
on  the  distant  bench,  and  the  children  she  was  watch- 
ing. He,  was  glad  of  that  for  her  sake.  He  hesitat- 
ingly, timidly  put  his  hand  upon  her  arm. 

"  Don't  touch  me,"  she  said,  but  as  if  the  touch 
were  a  physical  hurt  rather  than  an  indignity. 

He  withdrew  his  hand,  saying  in  a  low  voice  and 
pleadingly, — 

"  If  I  did  not  love  you  I  could  not  so  have  insulted 
you." 

She  made  no  response,  and  he  stood  looking  down 
upon  her,  waiting  until  she  should  lift  her  head.  He 
entered  upon  a  self-arraignment.  What  particular 
virtue  in  him  gave  him  the  right  to  judge  this  woman 
harshly?  How  came  it  that  he  assumed  to  have 
standards  of  honour  and  responsibility  so  much  above 
those  of  men  in  general  ?  Was  it,  after  all,  loyalty 
to  principle  and  not  a  phase  of  egotism  that  made  him 
resent  her  "  trifling "  with  him  ?  Was  not  his  anger 
due  to  disappointed  love  more  than  to  shock  to 
those  nice  scruples  concerning  man's  obligation  to 
man  which  he  had  always  imagined  he  possessed  in 
eminent  degree  ?  Love  was  a  free  agent ;  and  if  love 
came  to  him,  what  business  was  it  of  his  to  inquire 
if  someone  else  were  the  loser  ?  Did  the  fact  that 
another  man  loved  this  woman  constitute  an  in- 
violable claim  upon  her  before  she  had  really  sur- 
rendered her  freedom  of  choice  ?  What  was  an 
engagement  more  than  an  agreement  to  consider  the 

ife 


MANDERS 

advisability  of  entering  into  a  formal  and  definite 
contract?  Why  should  he  ascribe  sanctity  to  that 
which  the  rest  of  the  world  regarded  merely  as  a  con- 
ditional convenience  ?  Why  should  he  not  strive  for 
a  prize  that  was  still  a  challenge  to  fair  competition  ? 
Quixotisms  had  nothing  to  do  with  real  men  and 
women,  with  the  actualities  of  practical  life — and 
love  was  to  seize  upon  its  own  wherever  and  when- 
ever it  could. 

"  I  was  a  fool,"  he  said  suddenly,  bending  over  her. 
"  I  was  mad  with  jealousy.  Punish  me,  but  forgive 
me." 

She  raised  her  head,  drawing  her  hands  down  over 
her  cheeks  to  dry  away  the  traces  of  tears,  and  stood 
before  him,  no  longer  either  ashamed  or  angry,  but 
calm,  and  he  thought  he  read  in  the  pallid  and  pained 
expression  of  her  face  an  admission  that  gave  him  heart. 

"  You  ask  what  kind  of  woman  I  am,"  she  began. 

"  Don't  speak  of  that,"  he  interrupted  protestingly. 
"Nothing  you  can  say  can  make  me  feel  more  like 
a  cad.  I  was  a  beast.  Forgive  me." 

"I  will  tell  you,"  she  went  on,  as  if  he  had  not 
spoken.  "  I  was  in  no  way  bound  to  Walter  Blake- 
more.  We  were  not  engaged.  That  ring  had  no 
such  significance.  You  have  made  it  a  betrothal 
ring.  Get  it  for  me." 

She  turned  away  and  went  in  the  direction  of  her 
mother,  leaving  him  disconcerted  and  blank,  because 
of  her  manner  rather  than  her  words. 

He  watched  her  crossing  the  space  between  him 
190 


MANDERS 

and  Mrs  Storey,  now  in  the  sunlight,  now  in  the 
shadow,  and  thought  how  little  the  careless  grace  of 
her  movements  indicated  any  perturbation  of  heart  or 
mind.  He  saw  by  her  actions  when  she  joined  her 
mother  that  she  was  telling  of  the  loss  of  the  ring, 
explaining  why  he  remained  at  the  fountain.  Mrs 
Storey  seemed  of  a  mind  to  come  to  him,  but  Florence 
dissuaded  her.  Mrs  Storey  fluttered  her  handker- 
chief at  him  encouragingly,  and  the  two  went  down 
the  little  path  to  the  road  as  Mendenhall  whistled 
and  held  up  his  stick  to  signal  the  playing  children. 
Several  boys  came  running  to  him. 

"  Can  any  of  you  dive  ? "  he  asked. 

The  boys  exchanged  glances  of  much  inquisitive- 
ness,  the  question  struck  them  so  oddly.  Foreign 
visitors  to  Rome,  especially  English  and  American 
ones,  are  always  enigmatical  to  the  young  bandits 
of  the  streets,  they  seem  to  have  such  peculiar  ideas 
of  entertainment  It  was  like  this  big,  blond  man  to 
want  to  see  them  tumbling  in  this  fountain  against 
which  he  was  leaning. 

"Yes,"  said  the  tallest  and  slimmest  of  the  boys, 
Mwe  can  all  dive,  but  we  are  not  going  to — not  in 
there,"  grinning  sagaciously  and  pointing  into  the 
fountain. 

"  But  I  have  dropped  a  ring  in  here,  and  I'll  give 
you  a  gold  piece  if  you  get  it." 

"They  would  arrest  me,"  said  the  boy,- tempted  by 
the  offer,  yet  reluctant  to  let  cupidity  lead  him  into 
danger. 


MANDERS 

"A  whole  twenty  lire  piece,"  urged  Mendenhall, 
showing  the  coin. 

Two  or  three  began  flinging  off  their  rags,  but  the 
tall  boy  was  the  first  to  climb  upon  the  rim  of  the 
huge  basin  and  plunge  in  where  Mendenhall  directed. 
After  a  number  of  unsuccessful  efforts,  during  which 
the  others  clamoured  to  be  let  into  competition,  the 
ring  was  brought  up  with  a  handful  of  leafy  deposit 
and  triumphantly  held  out  to  Mendenhall. 

Later  in  the  day  Florence  received  the  jewel  with 
the  message,  "  When  may  I  see  you  ? " 

The  messenger  brought  back  the  answer, — 

"When  I  send  for  you;  but  I  thank  you  for  re- 
covering my  ring." 

"  My  ring ! "  he  repeated,  emphasising  the  pronoun 
in  an  unamiable  way.  "  That  is  the  end  of  it,  then ! 
I  am  to  be  sent  for  when  I  am  wanted !  Oh !  very 
well !  very  well ! " 

But  he  sat  down  at  his  table  and  began  writing. 
At  the  end  of  the  four  pages  he  stopped  to  read  over 
what  he  had  written.  He  then  tore  the  paper  into 
ribbons,  kicked  over  his  chair  and  lighted  a  cigar.  A 
few  inhalations  helped  him  to  an  orderly  train  of 
thought,  and  he  planted  himself  before  one  of  the 
windows  overlooking  the  street  to  follow  it  out. 

It  was  not  a  very  pleasant  train  of  thought,  but  he 
was  greatly  annoyed  when  a  knock  at  the  door  inter- 
rupted it.  A  valet  came  in  to  say  that  a  gentleman 
had  called  to  see  the  signer,  and  had  sent  up  his 
card. 


MANDERS 

14 1  am  not  in  to  any  one,"  said  MendenhalL 
But  he  glanced  at  the  card  the  valet  had  handed 
him.     It  bore  the  name  of  the  Count  Vasselli. 
"  Humph.     You  may  show  the  gentleman  up." 
He  smiled  as  he  recalled  the  incident  at  Orteviti's 
in  the  night  when  he  and  Blakemore  had  been  way- 
laid. 

"What  brings  the  old  imbecile  around  at  this 
late  day?" 

Count  Vasselli  came  in  with  a  curious  mingling 
of  dignity  and  affability — that  cautiously  polite 
manner  in  which  one  greets  an  acquaintance  of 
whose  identity  he  is  uncertain. 

Mendenhall  received  him  good-humouredly. 
"You  are  quite  well  again,  Mr  Mendenhall?* 
"Quite  well,  I  thank  you,  Count." 
"They  tell  me  you  had  a  very  serious  affair?" 
"  Oh !  it  could  easily  have  been  worse." 
"Do  you   know,  sir,  I   was   much  amused   when 
my  friends  came  back  from  your  hotel  to  tell  me 
you  were  dying,  the  morning  I  sent  them  to  you 
with  my  compliments?" 

"  Does  a  man's  dying  always  amuse  you,  Count  ?  " 
"  Oh !  Maria,  not  at  all !  not  at  all !  It  was  the 
idea  of  sending  a  challenge  to  a  dead  man  that  I 
found  so  comical.  It  put  me  into  such  a  good 
humour  that  I  immediately  wrote  you  out  an  in- 
vitation to  dine  with  me ;  but  just  as  I  was  hand- 
ing it  to  my  servant,  I  remembered  that  it  was  no 
easier  for  a  dead  man  to  eat  than  to  fight,  and  I 


MANDERS 

had  another  good  laugh.  I  have  to  thank  you  for 
two  of  the  pleasantest  half  hours  I  have  had  in 
years — two  of  the  very  pleasantest  in  years." 

"I  am  sure  I  am  very  glad  if  I  have  been  able 
to  drift  a  little  sunlight  into  your  life,  Count. 
And  in  what  way  can  I  contribute  to  your  further 
happiness  ? " 

"I  should  have  called  upon  you  before,  but  I've 
been  in  Naples.  I  returned  only  yesterday  morn- 
ing. In  the  first  instance,  I  wish  to  tell  you  that 
I  forgive  you." 

Mendenhall  bowed  with  impressiveness. 

"  A  gracious  act,  worthy  of  your  nobility,  Count" 

"  In  the  second  instance,  I  wish  you  to  dine  with 
me  to  meet  some  friends  on  Thursday  night." 

"I  am  very  sorry  that  it  is  impossible;  but  I 
leave  Rome  to-morrow." 

"Leave  Rome  to-morrow!  Not  to  be  thought 
of !  You  must  postpone  your  going  until  after 
my  dinner!" 

"I  cannot  do  that." 

"You  mean  you  won't  do  that!"  said  the 
Count  rising,  half  disposed  to  be  irritated  by  the 
decision  of  Mendenhall's  tone.  "Shall  I  take  your 
answer  as  a  renewal  of  the  affront  you  put  upon 
me?" 

Mendenhall  rose  gravely,  and  said,  with  a 
deferential  gesture,  and  looking  down  to  hide  the 
smile  in  his  eyes, — 

"I  do  not   believe  you   will    do    that,  my  dear 
194 


MANDERS 

Count  Vasselli,  when  I  tell  you  that  the  interests 
of  a  lady  are  involved." 

The  Count  was  pacified  at  once.  He  bowed 
pormissively. 

"That  gives  the  matter  quite  another  aspect.  I 
excuse  you,  but  regretfully.  However,  my  carriage 
is  at  the  door.  You  must  drive  with  me.  You 
cannot  refuse  me  that  satisfaction." 

"It  will  be  an  honour  as  well  as  a  pleasure, 
Count." 

"Much  pleasanter  than  being  run  through  with 
a  sword,  eh,  Mr  Mendenhall?" 

The  Count,  in  excellent  agreement  with  himself, 
perked  his  head  jauntily,  and  regarded  Mendenhall 
with  a  smile  of  good-natured  indulgence. 

"I  am  persuaded,  Count,  that  you  would  be  a 
most  chivalrous  adversary.  I  have  been  told  that 
your  courtesy  is  so  much  greater  than  your  resent- 
ments, that,  though  you  have  been  principal  in  a 
score  of  duels,  you  have  invariably  forgiven  rather 
than  injure  your  opponent." 

"I  am  peppery,  Mr  Mendenhall,  and  take  offence 
easily,  but  I  am  charitable,  and  if  I  am  quick  in 
wrath,  I  am  not  slow  to  make  allowance  for  the 
imperfections  of  my  fellows.  Besides,  as  soon  as 
I  find  that  a  man  will  fight,  I  know  that  he  is 
worth  having  as  a  friend." 

Count  Vasselli  was,  indeed,  a  jest  of  the  clubs, 
for  the  headlong  excitability  of  temper  that  hurried 
him  into  difficulties,  that,  threatening  to  terminate  in 


MANDERS 

bloodshed,  were  usually  dissolved  in  champagne.  He 
had  exchanged  cards  with  half  his  acquaintances, 
but  had  never  got  beyond  striking  sparks  from  a 
rapier. 

They  took  their  places  in  the  Count's  open  landau 
and  were  soon  in  the  going  and  coming  stream  of 
carriages,  which  every  afternoon  moves  leisurely 
along  the  Corso,  and  up  into  the  Villa  Borghese  and 
back  again  in  fashionable  monotony.  The  Count, 
who  was  incessantly  bowing,  seemed  vastly  pleased 
that  Mendenhall  was  fairly  active  in  that  respect, 
and  took  the  trouble  to  felicitate  him  upon  having 
dwelt  so  profitably  in  Rome.  When  the  Queen 
drove  by,  the  Count  arose  to  his  feet  to  bow  with 
becoming  ceremony,  but  he  was  not  wholly  inatten- 
tive to  his  companion.  Resuming  his  seat  he  stared 
at  Mendenhall  in  angry  surprise. 

"You  did  not  salute  her  majesty!"  he  exclaimed. 

Mendenhall  had  not  seen  the  Queen.  His  eyes 
had  been  occupied  with  the  occupants  of  the  second 
carriage  beyond.  His  mind  was  engaged  with 
thoughts  of  Florence,  and  he  had  recognised  her 
and  her  mother  some  distance  away,  so  the  royal 
carriage  passed  as  an  unimportant  factor  of  the 
procession.  His  gaze  was  eagerly  fixed  on  Florence's 
face.  He  saw  her  look  in  his  direction,  but  she 
gave  no  sign  of  recognition.  When  they  came  nearer, 
just  when  the  Queen  was  passing  the  Count's  carriage, 
she  looked  at  him  a  second  time,  and  his  hand 
went  instinctively  to  his  hat,  but  before  he  could 


MANDERS 

lift  it,  her  eyes  were  turned  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion. A  moment  after  the  Count  was  railing  at  him, 
and  she  was  passing  by  within  reach  of  his  hand 
should  he  stretch  it  out.  Mrs  Storey  bobbed  her 
head  and  smiled,  and  pantomimed  to  say  that 
Mendenhall  should  be  in  the  carriage  with  them. 

"Don't  get  into  a  passion,  my  dear  Count,  I'll 
make  amends.  When  we  pass  her  majesty  again 
I'll  stand  up  with  you." 

The  Count  beamed  upon  him,  and  laid  a  hand 
familiarly  upon  his  knee. 

"  You  noticed  it,  eh  ?  "  They  laugh  at  me  a  good 
deal  for  that  But  I  can't  help  it.  It  is  automatic. 
/  don't  do  it  I've  found  out  what  does  it,  though 
— it  is  the  combination  I  You  know  queens  hardly 
ever  look  like  queens:  Margherita  does.  And  then 
you  seldom  see  a  really  beautiful  queen  or  princess. 
Margherita  is  beautiful  There  you  have  it;  it  is 
the  union  of  Queen  and  Beauty  to  which  I  rise ; 
and  I  assure  you,  my  dear  gentleman,  it  is  altogether 
outside  of  my  control  Absolutely!  And  I'm  glad 
of  it!" 

Mendenhall  went  to  a  concert  that  evening  to 
"think  it  out."  He  cared  little  for  music,  and 
could  scarcely  distinguish  between  a  Chopin  nocturne 
and  a  Hungarian  rhapsody,  being  as  indifferent  to 
one  as  to  the  other.  Music  was  for  him,  he  said,  a 
besom  to  clear  the  cob-webs  out  of  his  mind  and  give 
thought  a  chance.  Like  Tennyson's  girl  with  the 
water-jug,  he  "heard  and  not  heard,"  his  thoughts 

«97 


MANDERS 

having  nothing  to  do  with  the  sound  of  over-flow. 
He  fancied  his  ideas  were  something  like  the  acrobats 
at  a  varieties  hall,  who  can  only  be  brought  into 
action  by  a  flourish  of  fiddles.  At  any  rate,  he  could 
never  pull  himself  together,  intellectually,  half  so  well 
as  when  sitting  under  the  influence  of  a  good 
orchestra;  and  if  he  left  the  place  ignorant  of  any 
and  every  feature  of  the  programme,  it  was  at  least 
with  his  mind  made  up  what  to  do  in  the  matter 
debated. 

Returned  to  his  hotel  he  wrote  a  number  of  notes, 
one  to  Mrs  Storey,  packed  his  belongings,  and  by 
noon  the  next  day  was  whirling  along,  if  that  may 
be  said  of  Italian  railway  locomotion,  on  his  way 
to  London. 

And  that  day  Florence  said  to  her  mother, 
"Don't  you  think  Rome  is  getting  to  be  a  bore?" 


its 


CHAPTER   XV 

"  MONTE  CARLO,  April  5. 

"DEAR  WALTER, — We  are,  as  you  may  see,  inching 
our  way  back  to  Paris,  though  we  haven't  any  idea 
when  we  shall  get  there.  For  my  own  part,  I  am  in 
no  hurry  to  quit  this  place.  It  is  enchanting,  and  I 
am  only  sorry  that  you  have  been  here,  for  I  feel 
quite  equal  to  a  descriptive  rhapsody  that  would  stun 
you.  But  you  need  not  conclude  that  it  is  the  pris- 
matic wickedness  of  the  life  here  to  which  I  have 
fallen  an  eager  victim.  It  is  the  scene;  though,  of 
course,  people  are  necessary  to  the  perfection  of  a 
scene,  and,  of  course,  at  Monte  Carlo  one  must  dance 
to  the  pipers,  and  that  means  a  soupcon  of  some  kind 
of  naughtiness.  Naturally  one  does  not  slight  the 
Casino.  We  have  become  habitues  of  the  most  de- 
termined order,  though  we  do  not  always  play — it 
is  so  expensive. 

"Mamma  had  what  they  call  a  run  of  luck  the 
other  day,  and  at  one  time  was  about  4000  francs 
ahead  of  the  game  (I  believe  that  is  the  proper 
phrase).  She  had,  however,  some  of  that  vaulting 
ambition  which  overleaps  itself  (a  Shakespearianism 
which  I  never  could  understand),  and  came  to  grief 


MANDERS 

in  her  efforts  to  win  10,000.  Between  as  we  lost 
1500  francs,  though  mamma  insists  that  it  was  a 
loss  of  5500  francs,  for  she  will  count  in  the  4000 
she  had  for  a  little  while.  Now  we  are  economizing 
to  make  up  that  extra.  Isn't  that  like  mamma  ? 

"  You  ask  me  a  great  many  questions  in  your  letters. 
Questions  requiring  an  answer  are  not  legitimate  to 
a  friendly  correspondence.  They  impose  an  annoy- 
ing responsibility  upon  one  of  having  the  letters  at 
hand  to  be  consulted  every  time  one  has  finished 
writing  a  paragraph.  It  is  an  abuse  of  good-nature 
A  correspondence  does  not  mean  answering  letters, 
it  means  exchanging  them;  otherwise  it  is  in  the 
nature  of  a  business  transaction,  I  don't  keep  your 
letters  about  me ;  indeed,  1  don't  keep  them  at  all. 
They  charge  for  every  pound  of  luggage  in  Italy,  and 
they  allow  but  little  in  France.  I  remember  two  of 
your  last  questions,  however,  and  don't  mind  answer- 
ing them.  Mr  Mendenhall  is  not  with  us.  He  has 
not  been  for  some  time.  I  don't  know  where  he  is. 
He  probably  has  a  reason  for  not  having  answered 
your  letter.  I  should  think  you  would  express  your 
wonder  to  him  and  not  to  me.  That  is  the  more 
sensible  thing  to  do,  isn't  it? 

"The  other  question  is  not  so  easily  answered, 
because  it  has  suspicious  elements.  I  see  no  reason 
for  calling  on  the  Warleys  or  the  Manderses  if  I 
'stop  long  enough  in  Paris.'  Your  interest  in  them 
may  be  commendable  without  being  weighty,  as  a 
reason  for  my  being  interested  in  them.  I  daresay 

800 


MANDERS 

the  Manders's  boy  merits  all  you  say  of  him,  and  he 
may  be  the  paragon  of  prodigies  for  anything  I  know 
to  the  contrary;  but  as  I  am  a  woman,  I  claim  t» 
woman's  privilege  of  suspecting  that  it  is  the  mother 
rather  than  the  child  from  which  your  zeal  draws 
tire.  Don't  imagine  that  I  object  in  the  least  to  that 
phase  of  it.  I  have  no  false  notions  as  to  the  pre- 
ponderance of  Josephs  in  the  social  economy.  To  be 
downright  candid  with  you,  I've  no  great  opinion  of 
Josephs.  But  I  do  very  decidedly  object  to  being 
used  as  an  instrument  for  stirring  other  people's 
chestnuts  about  over  the  coals.  You  need  not  feel 
called  upon  to  reiterate  your  eulogies  of  the  saintli- 
ness  of  Madame  Manders.  I  take  all  that  for  granted. 
I  allow  that  she  is  the  one  unblemished  sheep  in  the 
Parisian  fold,  and  that  I  might  do  well  to  bear 
frankincense  and  myrrh  to  her  and  her  boy ;  but  I 
am  a  Pharisee,  and  attach  a  great  deal  of  importance 
tK>  appearance,  confessing  my  inability  to  grasp  the 
spirit  of  things.  I  might  nave  been  content  with 
giving  you  a  simpler  reason  for  answering  your 
question  in  the  negative,  for,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  we 
are  not  to  stop  in  Paris  at  all ;  but  I  don't  care  to 
have  you  entertain  an  erroneous  idea  as  to  the  ex- 
tent of  my  gullibility.  A  timely  correction  of  your 
opinion  may  save  you  from  future  embarrassments, 
it  being  my  observation  that  men  are  not  what  you 
might  call  geometrically  exact  liars.  Their  terms 
do  not  observe  a  common  ratio  of  progression,  and 
they  are  always  betrayed  by  an  excesa 


MANDERS 

M  No ;  we  shall  not  stop  in  Paris  more  than  a  fort- 
night We  are  going  straight  to  London,  where  we 
expect  to  arrive  about  the  middle  of  May.  We 
shall  stop  there  until  the  23d  of  June,  and  then — 
you  are  the  first  to  receive  this  important  and 
really  momentous  intelligence — we  are  to  sail  for 
home!  You  are  probably  not  as  much  surprised 
as  you  ought  to  be,  for  papa  wrote  in  his  last 
letter  (a  desperately  private  one,  which  I  have  not 
yet  shown  to  mamma)  that  he  had  told  you  of  his 
intention  to  urge  me  to  persuade  mamma  to  come 
home.  My  persuasion  consisted  in  declaring  the 
fact  of  my  determination  to  sail  in  June  even  if  I 
had  to  hire  a  chaperon.  You  see  I  do  have  spasms 
of  filial  sober-mindedness  which  might  answer  for 
sympathy  with  the  dear,  stupid  man;  and  I 
authorise  you  to  soothe  him  with  this  bit  of  in- 
formation, for  I  shall  not  have  time  to  write  two 
letters  this  week. 

"Perhaps  I  should  tell  you  before  winding  up 
this  jumble  of  nonsense  that  I  have  committed 
what  you  may  think  an  unpardonable  indiscretion. 
Circumstances,  which  I  do  not  think  it  necessary 
to  recount,  have  made  it  advantageous  for  me  to 
call  your  ring  a  betrothal  ring.  Though,  as  I 
have  let  you  know  before  this,  I  look  upon  engage- 
ments as  a  kind  of  impeachment  of  a  woman's 
character,  marking  her  off  as  something  set  aside 
for  future  consideration,  or  taken  on  trial,  I  am 
willing  to  let  you  hold  an  option  on  me  until  we 

202 


MANDERS 

have  a  chance  to  talk  the  matter  over.  This  gives 
you  a  fine  opportunity  to  'decline  with  thanks/ 
but  if  you  do  anything  so  unimaginative  and  pro- 
vincial, I  shall  have  too  much  pity  for  you  to  be 
angry.  I  understand  well  enough  that  this  amounts 
to  a  proposal  for  your  hand,  but  as  I  have  not  the 
remotest  idea  of  marrying  you,  you  may  put  any 
construction  you  please  upon  my  desire  to  make  a 
temporary  convenience  of  you. 

"Papa  says  you  are  having  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  settling  up  your  father's  estate,  and  that 
times  are  hard.  Well,  that  may  give  you  a  taste 
for  practical  affairs,  and  cure  you  of  your  passion 
for  dabbling  in  oils.  After  looking  upon  miles  and 
miles  of  canvases  painted  by  nobody  but  cataloguers 
knows  who,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
painting  industry  is  overdone;  and  I  would  like  to 
see  you  take  up  with  something  in  which  you  could 
amount  to  something.  Why  don't  you  go  in  for 
politics  ?  It  isn't  the  most  reputable  business  in  the 
world,  I  believe,  but  it  does  admit  of  quick  personal 
distinction,  if  one  has  an  accommodating  conscience. 
But  you,  I  fear,  belong  to  the  accountable  type  of 
men.  Good-bye.  FLORENCE." 


"  PARIS,  May  S. 

"  DEAB  MR  BLAKEMORE,— Is  your  arithmetic  bad  ? 
or  have  you  forgotten  my  terms  ?  Your  last  cheque 
was  for  200  francs  too  much,  and  I  return  you 

203 


MANDERS 

that  amount  enclosed.  It  is  true  you  wrote  of 
extras;  but  there  are  no  extras. 

"  I  believe  there  is  a  good  deal  that  I  ought  to 
write  about  to  you,  but  I  am  such  a  wretched 
letter  writer,  it  is  very  likely  I  won't  know  how  to 
say  it.  In  the  first  place,  Manders  is  doing  so  well, 
that  I  begin  to  think  he  needs  a  better  teacher. 
He  takes  to  music  as  most  boys  take  to  mischief. 
I  cannot  keep  him  restrained,  and  he  makes  me  feel 
that  I  am  not  up  to  him.  He  is  not  like  a  boy  of 
eight  at  all.  He  seems  twelve  at  least.  His  tech- 
nique, of  course,  is  not  good,  and  he  does  not  read 
new  music  very  well,  but  he  can  play  almost  any- 
thing he  hears  played,  and  you  will  hardly  credit 
me  when  I  say  that  he  improvises  wonderfully. 
The  objection  is,  that  he  prefers  'playing  out  of 
his  head,'  as  he  puts  it.  It  is  amusing  to  see  how 
much  in  awe  of  him  Mrs  Manders  has  come  to  be. 
She  does  a  great  deal  of  sewing  now,  and  she 
always  sits  in  the  room  with  her  work  when  I 
am  giving  him  his  lesson,  but  I  notice  that  her 
work  stops,  and  she  sits  listening  to  him  with  a 
mixture  of  tears  and  smiles,  as  if  she  were  afraid 
of  something,  and  yet  happy  too. 

"  I  wrote  to  you,  did  I  not,  that  Mrs  Manders  has  a 
troublesome  cough  ?  In  my  opinion  it  is  even  worse 
than  it  was,  but  when  I  suggest  that  she  ought  to  see 
a  doctor,  she  laughs  and  declares  that  it  is  nothing 
but  a  tickling  in  her  throat,  and  that  doctors  are 
only  a  foolish  luxury  like  carriages  and  lap-dogs 

204 


MANDERS 

To  be  sure  I  don't  think  it  is  anything  seriotis 
myself,  but  it  is  just  as  well  to  stop  a  cough  in 
time.  I  have  come  to  have  a  great  respect  for  Mrs 
Manders.  I  never  knew  anyone  so  sweet-tempered 
and  so  always  sunny.  And  she  is  the  most  industri- 
ous creature.  There  is  never  a  sign  of  disorder  in 
her  rooms,  and  she  keeps  herself  and  Manders  always 
en  dimancM,  as  the  French  say.  I  don't  know  how 
she  manages,  for  I  cannot  believe  she  is  earning  a 
great  deal  now,  though  she  does  some  posing  in 
addition  to  her  sewing.  She  has  changed  my  ideas 
about  models.  I  used  to  think  that  none  of  them 
were  respectable,  and  I  sometimes  doubted,  in  spite 
of  what  you  said  to  my  father,  if  Mrs  Manders  could 
be  strictly  proper.  I  know  better  now,  and  perhaps 
I  should  apologise  to  you  and  to  her  for  ever  having 
had  opinions  without  some  facts  to  go  with  them. 

"This  morning  we  had  a  call 'from  Miss  Florence 
Storey,  who  said  she  came  at  your  request  to  ask 
about  Mrs  Manders  and  Manders.  I  offered  to  take 
her  with  me  to  see  them,  but  she  said  she  only  had  a 
few  minutes  to  spare,  and  her  mother  was  waiting 
outside  in  the  carriage.  I  liked  Miss  Storey  very 
much,  and  my  father  quite  lost  his  heart  to  her.  I 
told  her  everything  I  could  about  Mrs  Manders,  and 
finally  she  said,  '  If  it  isn't  very  far,  possibly  I  have 
got  time  to  go  with  you  to  see  them.'  So  they  took 
me  with  them  in  the  carriage,  but  I  got  the  impres- 
sion that  Mrs  Storey  was  not  pleased.  She  stayed  in 

the  carriage. 

•Of 


MANDERS 

I  thought  at  first  that  Miss  Storey  had  rather  a 
cold  and  patronising  way  with  Mrs  Manders,  but  it 
did  not  last  long.  Mrs  Manders  seemed  to  know  all 
about  Miss  Storey,  and  was  so  pleased  with  the  call 
that  she  seemed  a  new  being.  You  must  not  smile 
at  me  when  I  say  that  I  thought  she  seemed  grateful, 
though  I  don't  know  why  she  should  have  been.  I 
am  not  a  very  intelligent  observer.  At  first  the  two 
women  regarded  each  other  as  curiosities,  as  it  struck 
me,  but  I  am  sure  they  had  good  opinions  of  one 
another  when  they  parted.  I  stopped  to  give  Manders 
his  lesson  and  let  Miss  Storey  go  down  alone.  After 
she  had  gone  Mrs  Manders,  with  more  gaiety  than 
I  have  ever  seen  in  her,  said  to  Manders, — 

" '  Come,  my  little  one,  before  you  begin  your  lesson 
we'll  sing  one  of  our  old  songs  together,'  and  sat 
down  at  the  piano.  Do  you  know  that  Mrs  Manders 
would  sing  well  if  she  had  some  lessons?  But  she 
stopped  in  the  very  midst  of  the  second  verse  and 
turned  suddenly  to  me,  saying, — 

"'Is  it  really  true,  Miss  Warley,  that  you  are 
teaching  Manders  just  for  the  love  of  it?' 

"I  am  finding  it  very  hard  to  keep  up  these 
deceptions,  Mr  Blakemore,  and  some  day  I  am 
going  to  be  found  out,  I  know.  I  don't  see  any 
reason  for  them.  Mrs  Manders  is  sensible  enough, 
I  am  sure,  to  appreciate  what  it  means  to  Manders 
to  have  educational  advantages  which  she  cannot 
afford  to  give  him,  and  I  don't  think  she  is  too  proud 
to  accept  benefits  that  Manders  may  some  day  be 

206 


MANDERS 

able  to  repay  with  interest.      Really  now,  w  there 
any  reason  for  this  secrecy  ? 

"  I  haven't  written  such  a  long  letter  since  I  was  a 
schoolgirl,  and  I  daresay  I  have  left  out  everything 
that  I  started  out  to  tell  you.  You  must  make 
allowances  for  me. — Sincerely, 

"MATILDA  WABLEY." 


ao? 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"YoUB  father  has  lost  his  senses!  It  is  madness, 
downright  madness,  to  think  of  wanting  us  to  come 
back  to  New  Orleans  in  the  blaze  of  summer!  And 
who  knows  what  we  might  have  accomplished  this 
season  in  London !  Everything  was  in  your  favour ! 
And  yet  you  were  as  obstinate  as  he  was  imbecile ! 
As  if  you  didn't  know  that  your  father's  perpetual 
whining  about  hard  times  and  the  tightness  of  the 
money  market  is  only  so  much  professional  cant! 
And  here  we  are  blistering,  and  the  air  getting 
hotter  and  hotter  with  every  turn  of  the  engine 
wheels.  I  shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  if  we  were 
running  headlong  into  yellow  fever  or  the  cholera! 
And  I  should  not  object  in  the  least.  It  would 
serve  him  right!" 

This  was  the  frame  of  mind  in  which  Mrs  Storey 
returned  to  her  spouse,  and  which  they  may  excuse 
who  have  approached  New  Orleans  by  train  under 
the  mid-day  glare  of  a  July  sun.  Railway  service 
in  the  South  at  that  time  was  far  from  ideal,  the 
coaches  being  uncomfortable  and  "  stufiy,"  and  ill- 
protected  against  sifting  cinders  and  penetrating 
dust  by  badly-cased  windows.  The  managers  of 

ft* 


MANDERS 

roads  were  apparently  governed  by  the  opinion 
that  their  mission  in  life  was  to  do  what  they 
could  for  the  annoyance  of  their  not  too  numerous 
patrons.  It  was  as  if  the  train  service  were  an 
additional  punishment  imposed  upon  the  Southerners 
for  having  allowed  themselves  to  be  whipped  out  in 
the  war,  and  reduced  to  a  degree  of  poverty  to  which 
anything  above  the  merest  decencies  of  travel  would 
be  a  criminal  pampering.  Negro  equality,  a  legal 
fact  though  a  practical  myth,  had  its  influence  upon 
the  governing  orders,  and  before  "through  trains" 
between  the  North  and  the  South  came  into  use  in 
obedience  to  the  demands  of  in-rushing  Northern 
enterprise,  the  aristocrat  of  the  plantation  days 
was  forced  to  support  his  impoverished  dignity  by 
placarding  one  half  of  a  common  coach:  "This 
portion  reserved  for  whites." 

Conditions  had  not  so  greatly  improved  for  Mrs 
Storey's  benefit  that  she  could  be  much  blamed  if 
a  sleepless  night  and  an  early  morning  change  to  a 
comfortless  and  hot  day  coach  had  prepared  her 
temper  for  the  mid-day  eruption.  Florence  herself  was 
dispirited  enough  to  offer  no  defence  of  her  father. 
She  even  sighed  a  little  wearily  as  she  said, — 

"  Well,  please  don't  add  anything  to  the  heat, 
mamma.  If  we  must  be  martyrs,  let  us  try  to  be 
Christians." 

But  New  Orleans  was  not  as  intolerable  as  they 
had  anticipated.  The  Gulf  breezes,  taking  account 
of  Mrs  Storey's  coming,  had  blown  in  one  of  those 


MANDERS 

sudden  downpours  of  purifying  rain  which  turn 
the  streets  into  temporary  rivers  and  cool  the  air 
deliciously.  The  water  runs  knee  deep  while  the 
downpour  continues,  but  five  minutes  after  it  ceases 
there  is  nothing  but  the  moist  stones  and  the  fresh, 
sweet  air  to  tell  of  the  sudden  flood. 

The  carriage  span  of  large  black  mules  still  reeked 
of  their  drenching  as  Mrs  Storey  and  Florence 
were  handed  into  the  old-fashioned  barouche  that 
had  been  the  family  carriage  as  long  as  Florence 
could  remember,  but  the  rain  had  stopped  and  the 
sky  was  blue.  Released  from  the  train,  and  joy- 
ously welcomed  by  her  agreeably  deferential  hus- 
band, and  fanned  by  a  breeze  that  smelled  of  wet 
roses,  Mrs  Storey  was  enough  appeased  to  be 
amiable.  She  even  held  out  her  hand  to  the  coach- 
man, who  had  been  a  "born  slave"  of  Mr  Storey's 
father,  and  had  wisely  refused  to  avail  himself  of 
the  freedom  he  did  not  know  how  to  use. 

"We  are  back  again,  you  see,  Uncle  Jerry,"  she 
said,  as  he  took  her  hand  in  the  proprietory  way 
common  to  the  old  family  servants  in  the  South. 

"  Lawd !  I  can't  believe  ye,  Miss  Leshy !  But  I'se 
right  glad  you  is !  An'  Miss  Flaw'nce,  how  you  do 
look,  honey !  Them  furrin  parts  agrees  wi*  you  folks, 
Miss  Leshy — dey  do,  indeed  ! " 

Mrs  Storey's  name  was  Felicia,  and  she  was  "  Miss 
Leshy  "  to  the  blacks,  from  pickaninnies  to  ancients  of 
Jerry's  years. 

In  the  drive  to  the  house  in  St  Charles  Street, 

2IO 


MANDERS 

there  were  exchanges  of  glances  between  Florence 
and  her  father  that  conveyed  no  small  amount  of 
intelligence  from  one  to  the  other.  Mr  Storey  was 
saying  in  this  way  all  that  the  lively  and  voluble 
presence  of  Mrs  Storey  prevented  him  putting  into 
articulate  speech.  Interpreted,  the  conversation  was 
to  this  effect, — 

"  I  believe  we  perfectly  understand  each  other,  my 
dear?" 

"Perfectly,"  Florence  replied. 

"You  had  some  trouble  to  bring  it  about,  I 
suppose  ? " 

"Well,  rather." 

"  I'm  ever  so  much  obliged  to  you.  It  meant  some 
sacrifice  on  your  part,  too,  didn't  it,  my  girl  ? " 

"  That  is  hardly  worth  mentioning." 

"I'm  afraid  this  good  nature  of  your  mother's 
doesn't  go  very  deep." 

u  I  wouldn't  put  too  much  confidence  in  it." 

"  I  dread  thinking  of  my  first  hour  alone  with  her." 

"You  ought  to  be  pretty  well  used  to  it  by  this 
time." 

"Can't  you  manage  to  stick  by  me?  I'd  rather 
have  it  out  in  your  presence." 

"  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  you." 

"  The  fact,  is  my  dear  Flo,  I  had  to  do  it  Things 
are  worse  than  you  think." 

Florence  found  that  she  had  accumulated  a  large 
reserve  of  sympathy  with  her  father  in  the  drive 
home,  and  when  she  got  into  the  house  she  did  what 


MANDERS 

she  had  neglected  to  do  at  the  station — threw  her 
arms  around  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 

"  Thank  you,  Flo,"  he  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  I  was 
feeling  the  need  of  that." 

It  was  not  until  the  evening,  an  hour  after  dinner, 
that  the  interview,  for  which  Mr  Storey  had  been 
fortifying  himself  apprehensively  during  a  month, 
was  unlimbered  against  him.  Left  to  himself,  and 
cheered  by  the  delusion  that  the  ladies  would  busy 
themselves  with  unpacking,  Mr  Storey  stretched 
himself  on  the  leather-covered  lounge  in  the  library, 
his  stone  jar  of  crumbed  Virginia  leaf  on  the  table 
beside  him,  his  mahogany-coloured,  long-stemmed 
meerschaum  pipe  alight  in  his  mouth,  a  well-fed 
calm  shining  from  his  half-closed  eyes,  a  canopy 
of  blue-grey  film  wavering  in  soothing  assurance 
above  his  head.  As  the  tranquillising  influence  of 
the  tobacco  increased,  his  thoughts,  less  and  less 
anxious,  drifted  into  a  languorous  reverie  which 
was  very  like  unto  sleep  when  Mrs  Storey  came 
briskly  into  the  room. 

"  Oh !  here  you  are.  I  thought  you  had  gone  out 
Am  I  disturbing  you  ?  " 

"Not  in  the  least,  Felicia,"  Mr  Storey  responded, 
as  cordially  as  one  sharply  aroused  from  drowsiness 
may.  "  I  am  only  too  glad  to  see  you,"  rising  to  a 
sitting  posture  as  he  spoke.  :i  Sit  down  by  me  and 
tell  me  what  you've  been  doing  since  the  last  time 
we  had  a  chat  together." 

"I  am  not  in  the  reminiscent  vein  this  evening, 

817 


MANDERS 

Henry.  My  interest  now  is  in  finding  ont  what 
you  meant  by  breaking  up  my  plans  at  the  very  time 
they  looked  the  most  promising." 

"  Your  plans  for  what,  my  dear  ?  " 

"Don't  play  the  ingdnu,  Henry.  But  111  spare 
you  the  necessity  of  floundering  about  among  your 
pitiable  subterfuges.  My  eyes  were  opened  when 
that  basket  of  flowers  came  from  Walter  Blakemore 
this  afternoon.  So  you  entered  into  a  conspiracy 
with  that  young  gentleman  to  play  upon  Florence's 
sympathies  and  make  a  fool  of  me?  Exactly  like 
you !  I  only  wonder  that  I  was  too  stupid  to  see 
through  your  miserable  scheme  in  time  to  defeat  it. 
But  your  triumph  shall  be  short-lived,  that  I  promise 
you ;  and  if  Walter  Blakemore  comes  here  to-night — " 

"  He  is  not  in  New  Orleans." 

"But  the  flowers?" 

"Telegraphed.  Come  now,  Felicia,  let's  have  a 
sensible  talk.  You  are  on  the  wrong  track  entirely. 
The  whole  thing  in  a  nutshell  is  that  we've  got  to 
retrench." 

"Retrench!  I  hate  the  word,  Henry.  It  is  ill- 
sounding  and  ill  -  meaning  and  mean  -  spirited.  I 
never  knew  a  babbler  about  retrenchment  who  had 
anything  to  retrench.  That  is  the  cant  phrase  of 
cheap  politicians  who  are  struggling  to  get  their 
hands  into  the  public  purse." 

"My  dear,"  Mr  Storey  broke  in  with  more  than 
his  usual  firmness,  and  putting  his  pipe  on  the  table, 
"you  may  choose  your  own  words,  but  here  are  the 

"3 


MANDERS 

facts.  Everything  has  gone  against  me  this  year, 
both  here  and  in  New  York.  I*m  a  million  out,  and  I 
have  reached  bed  rock.  I  haven't  five  thousand  left 
in  bank,  and  unless  there  comes  a  turn  in  the  New 
York  wheat  market  pretty  soon  I'm  a  ruined  man." 

"  Ruined ! "  cried  Mrs  Storey,  aghast.  "  Does  that 
mean  that  you  have  lost  Florence's  fortune,  too  ?  " 

Mr  Storey  looked  at  his  wife  wonderingly,  a  pained 
smile  coming  slowly  to  his  lips.  Use  Florence's 
money  in  speculation  ?  Cheat  the  girl  whose  future 
security  and  happiness  were  his  only  ambition  ?  He 
picked  up  his  pipe  and  relighted  it  without  replying. 

Mrs  Storey  quite  understood,  and  was  in  a  measure 
comforted.  There  was  nothing  so  very  dreadful  to 
fear  as  long  as  Florence  had  half  a  million.  Her 
asperity  returned  upon  her. 

"  What  business  had  you  fooling  around  the  New 
York  wheat  markets?  You  were  a  cotton  and 
tobacco  broker,  and  knew  what  you  were  about  as 
long  as  you  stuck  to  your  proper  vocation!  Why 
couldn't  you  let  good  enough  alone?" 

"  I  should  have  been  very  glad  to  do  that  if  you 
had  been  satisfied  with  '  good  enough,'  my  dear 
Felicia.  But  you  can't  keep  a  house  in  Washington, 
a  villa  at  Newport,  and  do  the  fashionable  in  Europe 
on  a  cotton  broker's  income.  You  made  speculation 
necessary,  my  dear." 

"  /  made  it  necessary  I  I  beg  of  you  not  to  try  to 
put  the  responsibility  for  your  business  shortcomings 
upon  my  shoulders,  Mr  Storey.  If  you  were  weak 

*I4 


MANDERS 

enough  to  make  a  fool  of  yourself,  do  have  the  manli- 
ness to  bear  the  blame  of  it.  /  am  not  the  head  of 
the  family!" 

"  It  cost  us  one  hundred  and  ten  thousand  dollars 
to  live  last  year,  and  I  made  less  than  fifty  thousand 
dollars. 

"Well?" 

"  I  am  going  to  keep  our  living  inside  of  my  income 
after  this." 

"  And  that  means—  ? " 

"The  sale  of  the  Washington  and  Newport 
properties,  and  economy  at  home." 

Florence  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"  May  I  come  in  ? "  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs  Storey;  "  I  think  we  need  your 
advice." 

A  family  conference  ensued,  the  first  of  the  kind 
in  which  Florence  had  part.  The  situation  was 
reviewed  in  detail,  and  the  embarrassed  condition  of 
Mr  Storey's  affairs  made  clear. 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  Florence  said  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  summing  up.  "It  is  going  to  give  us  the 
chance  to  show  some  common  sense  and  live  like 
intelligent  people.  I  am  tired  enough  of  trotting 
around  like  a  prize  animal  looking  for  the  highest 
bidder,  and  I  welcome  the  opportunity  to  get  out  of 
the  cattle  market  I  shouldn't  be  at  all  sorry  if 
you  went  quite  to  smash,  papa.  We  might  live 
happily  together  then,  and  we  would  at  least  know 
what  sort  of  friends  we  have." 

215 


MANDERS 

Deserted  by  Florence  in  this  way,  Mrs  Storey, 
crowding  back  the  rebellious  tears  sent  up  by 
humiliated  pride,  confessed  to  having  lived  in  vain, 
and  avowed  that  mothers  who  give  thought  and 
heart-beats  solely  to  the  consummation  of  brilliant 
plans  for  a  daughter's  future  are  typified  in  history 
by  Niobe,  whom  grief  turned  to  stone  after  an  access 
of  maternal  disappointment. 

In  reality  Mrs  Storey  was  not  an  unreasonable 
woman,  and  though  she  held  to  the  opinion  that  Mr 
Storey  was  altogether  too  radical  and  arbitrary  in 
his  calculations  of  things  necessary  to  be  done,  she 
acquiesced  in  the  plans  for  the  future  with  a  certain 
grace  when  she  was  convinced  that  Florence  was  in 
earnest  about  wanting  to  settle  down  quietly  for  a 
time.  It  was  agreed  that  the  Washington  and 
Newport  places  should  be  disposed  of,  that  the 
Charles  Street  house  should  be  kept  for  the  winter 
residence,  and  that  this  summer  should  be  passed 
quietly  at  one  of  the  Gulf  coast  towns  to  which  New 
Orleans  people  resorted  in  the  hot  months. 

In  the  course  of  a  week  they  decided  on  Balouis,  and 
selected  an  old-fashioned,  one-storey,  rambling  plant- 
ation house  backed  by  a  grove  of  live  oaks,  having  a 
rose  garden  of  rich  variety  at  one  side,  the  climbing 
roses  embowering  one  wing  of  the  house,  and  with  a 
close  line  of  tall  flowering  oleanders  screening  the 
front  lawn  from  the  road  which  followed  the  wind- 
ings of  the  bay.  Florence  had  chosen  the  house,  be- 
ing curiously  attracted  to  it  by  the  name  "  Waldmeer  " 

Ml 


MANDERS 

done  in  white-painted  horseshoes  diagonally  across 
the  street  gate,  and  it  was  her  privilege  to  furnish  it 
from  town  in  accordance  with  her  own  ideas,  which 
made  much  of  white  muslin  curtains,  cool  yellow 
mattings,  rattan  chairs  and  divans,  plentifully 
supplied  with  light  cushions,  white-framed,  delicate 
water-colours,  and  hammocks  swung  across  the 
porches  or  between  neighbourly  trees  that  over- 
shadowed the  house. 

"Where  did  you  get  such  notions  of  virginal 
simplicity  ? "  Mrs  Storey  asked  a  little  satirically 
but  not  too  much  displeased. 

"  Well,  this  is  the  first  time  I've  felt  at  home  in  ten 
years,"  Mr  Storey  declared  heartily  on  his  first  even- 
ing in  the  house  after  it  was  "  settled." 

Mr  Storey  came  the  fifty  miles  from  New  Orleans 
by  the  late  afternoon  train  every  day,  being  met  at 
the  station  by  the  ladies  with  the  mules  and  carriage, 
for  the  drive  over  the  smooth,  shell  road,  along  the  fine 
sweep  of  the  bay,  was  the  evening  recreation  of  the 
fortunate  summer  residents  of  the  village,  who  insisted 
on  a  picturesquely  showy  display  in  that  delightful 
period  of  the  day,  when  the  sun  was  just  lazing  down 
behind  the  tops  of  the  pine  woods,  and  the  breezes 
were  chasing  in  from  the  blue  reaches  of  the  gulf. 
The  nights,  their  large-starred,  velvet-like  sky  seem- 
ing but  a  little  more  than  arm's  length  above  the 
head,  offered  peculiar  charms  to  loiterers  on  the 
beach  or  on  the  long,  bench-equipped  private  piers 
that  extended  a  thousand  or  more  feet  into  the  tide 

217 


MANDERS 

waters  of  the  bay.  When  the  tide  went  out,  bare- 
legged and  half-clad  bronzed  men  and  girls  and 
boys — Italian  and  French  and  "  Creole" — waded  in  the 
shallows,  holding  aloft  cressets  of  flaming  "  fat  pine," 
picking  up  the  soft  shell  crabs  or  spearing  flounders 
for  the  morning  sales  from  house  to  house,  making  a 
weirdly  fascinating  spectacle  Florence  never  wearied 
of  watching.  There  was  moonlight  boating  and  early 
morning  fishing,  and  afternoon  haunting  of  woods, 
diversion  enough  of  many  kinds  besides  the  inevit- 
able social  phases  of  idling  life  in  a  select  resort,  so 
that  Mrs  Storey  soon  came  to  a  poise  of  mind  which 
persuaded  her  that  simple  gowns  and  roses  for  jewels 
are  not  incompatible  with  happiness.  Mr  Storey, 
who  had  riot  known  such  wholesome  recreation  from 
the  cares  of  business  in  years,  began  to  get  round  of 
face  and  elastic  of  step,  undergoing  such  a  process  of 
rejuvenescence  that  he  fell  into  a  sort  of  temerity  of 
conduct  towards  Mrs  Storey,  and  picked  up  his  long- 
abandoned  habit  of  calling  her  "  Leshy,"  after  the 
fashion  of  the  negroes. 

Several  hundred  yards  back  of  the  house  proper, 
in  a  semi-clearing  in  the  oak  grove,  was  a  quaint 
cottage  which  Florence  fitted  up  as  a  "  bachelors'  rest," 
for  the  accommodation  of  her  gentlemen  friends  who 
might  from  time  to  time  come  out  to  stop  with  them 
from  Saturday  to  Monday,  a  spirit  of  hospitality  that 
did  not  go  unrewarded.  Blakemore,  who  had  already 
taken  a  studio  in  New  York  and  was  waiting  to 
begin  work  when  the  affairs  of  his  father's  estate, 

•il 


MANDERS 

which  was  not  as  large  as  had  been  imagined,  should 
be  settled,  came  down  from  New  York  for  a  fort- 
night. Mr  Storey  would  nos  hear  of  his  going  to  the 
hotel  as  he  had  intended,  but  insisted  on  installing 
him  in  the  "  bachelors'  rest,"  to  the  secret  annoyance 
of  Mrs  Storey,  who,  however,  put  on  the  outward 
show  of  friendliness. 

Blakemore  had  come  to  Waldmeer  prepared  to 
exercise  over  Florence  those  indefinable  rights  of 
possession  which  every  "  engaged "  young  gentleman 
believes  to  be  guaranteed  him  upon  his  entrance  into 
the  probationary  state  of  bliss.  Florence  seemed  to 
have  an  altogether  erroneous  view  of  the  situation, 
and  adopted  tactics  that  made  another  Tantalus  of 
him,  dangling  the  sweets  of  intercourse  just  safely  out 
of  his  reach,  and  keeping  him  in  expectant  uncertainty 
as  to  the  turn  her  caprices  of  mind  were  likely  to  take. 
He  resolved  to  make  a  virtue  of  boldness.  After  a 
thoughtful  pause  in  one  of  their  purposeless  conver- 
sations at  the  end  of  the  pier,  he  asked  abruptly, — 

"  When  are  we  going  to  be  married  ? " 

"Not  until  you  amount  to  something,"  she  an- 
swered promptly,  in  matter-of-fact  way. 

"  You  believe  in  perpetual  engagements,  then  ? " 
he  asked. 

"  Oh !  I  don't  think  you  are  without  possibilities," 
she  said  seriously,  not  following  his  humorous  lead ; 
"  but  I  am  not  so  sure  that  you  will  develop  them. 
I  am  certain  you  would  not  if  you  wait  to  set  about 
it  until  you  are  married." 

M| 


MANDERS 

u  Why  do  you  say  that  ?  Marriage  is  the  thing  to 
bring  a  man  to  himself." 

*  That,  of  course,  depends  on  the  man." 

"  Or  on  the  woman,"  he  urged  in  amendment. 

"  Not  at  all,"  she  answered  decisively,  "  at  least  not 
in  the  sense  you  mean.  It  is  true  a  woman  may  be 
a  hindrance  or  an  assistance  to  the  man  she  marries, 
but  she  can  be  an  assistance  only  when  the  man  is 
the  really  dominant  force  and  capable  of  going  ahead 
in  spite  of  the  woman.  In  a  case  of  that  kind 
the  woman,  if  she  Las  character  enough  to  be  self- 
denying,  and  devotion  enough  to  identify  herself 
intelligently  with  her  husband's  ambition,  can  un- 
doubtedly strengthen  his  purpose,  and  that  is  all  she 
can  do.  But  if  the  man  be  naturally  irresolute  or 
only  half  in  earnest,  an  average  woman  would  simply 
close  the  door  of  possibilities  against  him,  for  an 
average  woman  is  merely  a  dependence,  and  therefore 
an  encumbrance  that  makes  for  the  commonplace." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you.  But  if  it  were  so,  what 
has  that  to  do  with  you  and  me  ?  " 

"  Shall  I  answer  you  frankly  ?  " 

«  Of  course.     Why  not  ? " 

"  Well,  then,  to  be  candid  with  you,  I  don't  think,  as 
between  you  and  me,  that  you  are  the  really  domin- 
ant force.  I  think  I  am  the  stronger  of  the  two." 

He  laughed.  "Well,  I  am  perfectly  willing  you 
should  be ;  but  what  makes  you  think  you  are  ? " 

"Observation,  my  dear  Walter,  and  some  experi- 
ence with  you.  You  are  a  planner,  an  undertaker, 

220 


MANDERS 

a  beginner ;  yon  are  not  a  finisher.  Yon  are  one  of 
those  easy,  good-natured  men  who  find  it  difficult  to 
realise  that  concentration  and  a  certain  element  of 
exclusive  selfishness  are  necessary  to  any  kind  of 
success  that  is  worth  while.  If  you  had  a  wife  you 
would  be  domestic,  and  be  without  enough  ambition 
to  command  your  energies,  especially  as  you  are  in 
no  danger  of  having  to  work  for  your  living." 

"  You  misjudge  me,  Florence." 

"I  don't  think  so.  Are  you  going  to  stick  to 
painting  ? " 

"  Why,  yes ;  I  think  so.  That  seems  to  be  my 
avocation." 

"  There  are  no  avocations.  A  man  determines  his 
own  vocation.  But  I'm  beginning  to  doubt  that  even 
painting  has  any  very  strong  hold  upon  you." 

"  Come,  now,  Florence  ?  Why  do  you  say  that  ? 
I  am  passionately  fond  of  painting.  God  knows,  I've 
worked  hard  enough  to  get  hold  of  it ! " 

"  Well,  I  can't  find  out  that  you  have  ever  finished 
anything — " 

"  But  I  have !  "  he  interrupted  eagerly.  "  I  have 
just  finished  something  that  I  believe  is  worth  while." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  A  portrait." 

" Something  you  began  in  Paris? " 

"Yes." 

*  A  lady  ?    Madame  Manders,  I  suppose  t " 

"  She  posed  for  it ;  but  it  is  your  face." 

"  Ah !  you  make  such  combinations,  do  you  ?  " 


MANDERS 

"  I  think  it  really  a  striking  likeness.  I  am  sure 
you  will  like  it." 

"I  am  not  so  sure.  Don't  you  think  it  time  we 
were  going  in  ?  Father  will  be  coming  down  with  a 
lantern  in  the  moonlight  to  look  for  us  presently.  It 
is  funny  how  little  confidence  papa  has  in  the  moon." 

He  was  conscious  of  a  forced  lightness  in  her 
manner,  but  could  not  account  for  it.  He  under- 
stood, however,  that  she  had  warned  him  off  a  too 
personal  ground,  and  they  walked  up  the  pier  in 
silence.  When  they  had  crossed  the  road  she  paused 
with  her  hand  on  the  gate -latch. 

"  Do  you  know,  it  has  been  a  disappointment  to  me 
that  you  should  be  here  nearly  two  weeks  without 
once  seeming  to  have  been  struck  with  the  artistic 
values  of  Waldmeer  ?  That  is  one  thing  that  makes 
me  doubt  your  having  the  true  artist  temperament." 

"  But  I  have  been  struck  with  them,  and  if  I  had 
the  time  I  should  make  some  studies  of  several  effec- 
tive bits,  possibly  with  you  somewhere  in  the  scene." 

"  Then  why  not  take  the  time  ? "  looking  saucily  at 
him. 

"  I  shall — when  I  return  in  September." 

"  Oh !  you  are  coming  back  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  are  to  be  here." 

"  And  why  not  before  ? " 

"I  have  accepted  commissions  to  paint  two  por- 
traits." 

"Really!" 

"  Yes ;  and  I  am  to  have  good  pay  for  them  too." 


MANDERS 

"Indeed!  Well,  perhaps  yon  are  going  to  change 
my  opinion  of  you." 

"  I  hope  not  altogether,"  he  said,  following  her  in 
through  the  gateway. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

'  IT  is  my  opinion,"  said  Mere  Pugens,  discontentedly, 
to  a  neighbour  with  whom  she  was  gossiping  over  a 
friendly  glass  of  absinthe  in  her  favourite  cabaret, 
"  It  is  my  opinion  Paris  has  not  such  another  fool  as 
our  Marie  Manders." 

"  You  think  so,  Mere  Pugens  ? " 

"  I  do,  neighbour.  She  is  starving  on  pease  porridge 
at  ten  francs  a  week  when  she  might  as  well  have  a 
hotel  in  the  fashionable  quarter,  like  my  Lizette,  and 
enjoy  the  comforts  of  a  gentlewoman.  If  she  hasn't 
any  ambition  for  herself  she  owes  something  to  the 
boy.  It  is  true  she  gives  everything  to  him  and  keeps 
nothing  for  herself ;  but  what  of  that  when  she  holds 
from  him  so  much  that  he  might  have !  And  what  is 
it  all  for  ?  Ask  her  if  you  care  to  laugh.  '  I  wish  to 
live  respectable  for  my  boy's  sake ! '  Was  ever  such 
idiocy  ?  As  if  there  could  be  anything  as  respectable 
as  plenty  of  money  and  the  things  that  go  with  it ! 
I  feel  sorry  for  the  little  imbecile,  and  have  offered  a 
thousand  times  since  her  lover  ran  away  and  left  her 
to  take  her  to  Lizette,  who  is  just  now  beginning  to 
feel  the  need  of  having  a  young  face  to  take  about 
with  her.  Not  that  I  am  thinking  of  Lizette. 

324 


MANDERS 

Heaven  be  praised,  she  needs  no  meddling  from 
me.  I  don't  know  where  she  got  her  wisdom. 
Pugens  was  a  sot,  and  my  brains  were  none  too 
lively ;  but  Lizette — Lord  bless  you !  she  used  to  stop 
nursing  to  laugh  at  things  she  thought  of.  She 
would  make  a  woman  of  Marie  in  a  fortnight.  But 
I'm  afraid,  neighbour,  the  poor  child  will  go  on  being 
a  fool  to  the  end,  and  I'm  thinking  the  end  is  not  so 
far  away.  It  is  pitiful  the  way  she  has  gone  off  in 
the  past  year." 

Mere  Pugens  sighed,  shook  her  head  dolorously, 
and  sought  relief  of  feeling  in  several  extra  sips  of 
absinthe. 

Back  of  her  ill-directed  thought  there  was  a 
genuine  and  well-meaning  sympathy.  Her  coarse 
nature  had  many  kindly  fibres,  which  vibrated 
tenderly  when  Marie  was  in  her  mind,  especially  now 
that  she  saw  Marie  making  an  unequal  battle  against 
conditions  which  she,  Mere  Pugens,  thought  had  no 
sort  of  right  to  exist. 

Marie  had  gone  to  M.  Monier  to  offer  her  services 
again  as  a  mode)  The  old  master  eagerly  welcomed 
the  offer,  but  when  she  stipulated  that  she  should  not 
be  asked  to  pose  for  the  nude  he  supposed  she  jested, 
and  good-humouredly  railed  at  her. 

"  Oh  !  dearie,  dearie !  hide  such  a  figure  and  make 
us  do  with  that  pretty  doll's  head,  as  if  we  were  all 
Correggios  doing  infants  ?  That  would  never  do  in 
the  world,  my  child !  Come,  come,  you  have  no  reason 
yet  to  be  ashamed  of  your  figure,  my  beauty." 


MANDERS 

Finding  her  in  earnest,  he  seriously  undertook  to 
dissuade  her  from  sacrificing  art  to  artificial  scruples, 
proposing,  if  she  objected  to  class  work,  to  get  her 
excellent  engagements  for  private  posing.  But  Marie, 
with  such  a  smile  as  he  could  not  understand,  shook 
her  head,  declining  to  engage  for  anything  but 
costume  work.  She  began  to  realise  now  that  those 
old  jests  of  the  students  which  she  had  treated  so 
lightly  were  not  jests  at  all  Dimpled  chins  and 
infantine  eyes  have  no  great  value  in  mature  art 
schemes.  Some  employment  she  found,  indeed,  but, 
clothed  and  in  her  right  mind,  her  field  of  usefulness 
was  necessarily  limited ;  yet  if  they  had  looked  more 
attentively,  looking  through  the  surface  into  the 
deeps  below  it,  they  would  have  seen  as  the  days 
went  by  that  something  was  coming  up  into  the  doll 
face  to  counteract  its  dimple,  something  that  would 
make  it  worth  while  to  paint.  But  he  is  a  great  man 
whose  brush  dips  below  the  surface;  it  requires  a 
Velasquez  or  a  Murillo  to  see  mystery  in  the  serene 
face  of  a  child.  Marie's  lot  was  cast  with  the 
moderns,  moderns  who  paint  the  nude  for  its  naked- 
ness, leaving  it  as  naked  as  they  find  it,  and  her  fifty 
and  forty  francs  a  week  went  down  to  thirty  and 
twenty  and  ten  before  a  year  was  done,  and  plain 
sewing  for  cheap  shops  became  a  supplementary  ill- 
paid  labour. 

Manders  was  kept  for  a  long  time  in  ignorance  of 
any  change  in  their  material  affairs,  so  artful  was 
Marie  in  her  economies.  He  was  aware,  however, 

226 


MANDERS 

of  an  increased  devotion  on  her  part,  and  though 
he  was  unable  to  analyse  the  character  of  this  tender- 
ness, he  felt  the  influence  of  a  new  dignity,  a  poise,  a 
precision  in  her  maternal  attitude,  and  to  his  adora- 
tion of  her  was  added  a  respect,  as  he  somehow 
realised  that  she,  rather  than  he,  was  the  stronger 
now.  Marie  was  hardly  conscious  of  the  transitions 
in  herself  at  which  Manders  vaguely  wondered.  She 
did  not  know  that  the  pressure  of  maternal  responsi- 
bility within  circumstances  of  privation  and  self- 
denial  was  fashioning  her  anew ;  but  she  did  know 
that  a  strange  contentment  nearly  akin  to  happiness 
grew  out  of  this  battling  to  keep  Manders  well  clad, 
well  fed  and  happily  ignorant  of  the  hardships  with 
which  she  had  to  contend.  Mere  Pugens  saw  only  the 
struggles ;  she  was  blind  to  the  rewards,  and  therefore 
could  not  understand  that  Marie  was  far  from  being 
an  object  of  pity.  But  the  old  woman  was  alive  to 
the  growing  gravity  of  the  face  in  which  she  thought 
she  discerned  a  wearing  sorrow,  and,  though  not 
appreciating,  confessed  the  womanliness,  the  intelli- 
gent positiveness  which  were  taking  the  place  of 
the  one-time  helpless  ingenuousness.  Mere  Pugens 
believed  she  knew  the  very  hour  that  set  the  change 

»  o 

in  motion.  It  was  a  year  ago.  Blakemore,  whose 
father  had  just  died,  wrote  to  Captain  War'ey  author- 
ising him  to  dispose  of  such  effects  in  the  apartment 
in  the  Rue  Danfert-Rochereau  as  were  not  to  be  sent 
to  America.  In  this  letter  he  said  it  was  doubtful  if 
he  would  be  in  Paris  for  several  years  to  come,  as  the 

227 


MANDERS 

settling  of  his  father's  estate,  the  invalidism  of  his 
mother,  and  his  formal  setting  up  as  an  artist  "  with 
something  serious  to  do"  made  it  desirable  that  he 
stop  at  home.  He  gave  particular  directions  for  the 
packing  and  forwarding  of  the  nearly-finished  paint- 
ing of  Marie,  on  which  he  had  been  so  hopefully 
engaged,  and  which  he  was  resolved  to  finish  as  a 
masterpiece,  playfully  underscoring  the  word  with 
several  strong  lines. 

Marie  had  taken  Manders  to  the  first  day's  sale 
of  the  household  goods  at  auction,  and  Mere  Pugens, 
who  stood  by,  observed,  with  many  self-satisfied 
waggings  of  the  head,  that  Marie  more  than  once 
furtively  dried  her  eyes,  and,  when  she  learned  that 
the  picture  was  not  to  be  sold,  slipped  away,  leaving 
Manders  with  Mere  Pugens.  No  cleverness  is  re- 
quired to  put  two  and  two  together  to  make  a 
sum  of  four,  and  the  good  shopwoman  fancied  she 
knew  the  signs  of  a  bleeding  heart  as  well  as  any 
woman  in  Paris.  Her  indignation  rose  against  Blake- 
more,  and  she  was  unwilling  that  others  should  live 
in  ignorance  of  her  opinions  concerning  him,  par- 
ticularly Marie.  She  climbed  Marie's  stairs  that 
evening  to  deliver  a  tirade  against  a  sex  to  whose 
perfidy  the  world  owes  all  its  abominations.  She 
was  dumfounded,  therefore,  when  Marie  said,  with 
unaccustomed  firmness, — 

"You  must  never  speak  to  me  in  this  way  about 
M.  Blakemore.  He  is  the  best  friend  I  have." 

But  as  the   months  went   by   Mere   Pugens   was 


MANDERS 

less  and  leas  disposed  to  find  truth  in  the  declara- 
tion. This  day,  then,  when  the  talk  with  her 
neighbour  over  their  absinthe  had,  as  she  imagined, 
fortified  her  mind  with  incontrovertible  arguments, 
Mere  Pugens  went  determinedly  to  Marie,  and,  un- 
mindful of  opposition,  summed  up  the  situation  to 
the  reproach  of  Marie. 

"It  is  a  shame  for  you  to  be  slaving  your  life 
away  in  this  beggerly  manner  because  a  miserable 
thing  of  a  man  that  you  ought  to  despise  has  aban- 
doned you  to  poverty." 

This  was  the  gist  of  her  loquacious  wrath,  and 
Manders,  forgotten  in  the  room  beyond,  heard  and 
understood  her.  He  sat  very  still,  some  toys  clutched 
in  his  hand,  his  face  pale,  his  lips  quivering,  as  he 
listened;  and  he  sat  so  for  many  minutes  after 
Mere  Pugens  had  gone,  listening  to  something  that 
sounded  like  stifled  sobs  in  the  other  room.  When 
these  sounds  were  silenced,  and  he  heard  Marie 
moving  about  again,  he  went  to  her,  holding  out 
to  her  the  toys. 

"You  may  put  these  away,  maman,"  he  said;  "I 
am  not  going  to  play  with  them  any  more." 

"  Not  play  with  them  any  more  I  Why,  my  little 
one?" 

"I  am  not  a  baby  now,"  he  said. 

She  stooped  and  kissed  him.  The  little  lips  were 
very  cold,  she  thought,  and  something  of  fear  touched 
her.  She  offered  to  take  him  on  her  lap.  There  was 
someone  singing  and  playing  u>  the  street* 


MANDERS 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  am  going  down  to  hear  the 
music." 

He  put  his  arms  about  her  waist.  His  head  came 
up  to  her  breast.  He  laughed  a  little. 

"You  see  I  am  almost  as  big  as  you  are,"  he  said, 
kissed  her,  and  ran  out  of  the  door. 

He  knew  these  street  musicians.  They  were 
familiars  of  the  neighbourhood,  the  man's  voice  a 
well-trained  but  broken  baritone  that  had  been 
heard,  no  doubt,  long  ago  otherwhere  than  in  the 
streets,  the  woman's  voice  a  quavering  soprano,  that 
seemed  to  have  its  memories,  too,  of  better  days. 
Marie  and  Manders  had  loved  to  listen  to  them, 
thinking  they  sang  right  well,  and  had  thrown 
down  sous  to  them  from  the  high  window  grate- 
fully. Their  accompanying  instrument  was  an  ac- 
cordion, somewhat  pleasantly  subdued  by  age.  They 
had  moved  further  along  the  street  when  Manders 
got  to  them,  and  he  followed  them  in  their  second 
remove,  waiting  until  they  were  again  ready  to  move 
on.  Then,  giving  a  two-sou  piece  to  the  man  as 
they  walked  along,  he  said, — 

"I  can  sing,  too,  monsieur." 

"  Ha !  and  better  than  I  can,  I  daresay,  my  little 
man,  eh?" 

"Perhaps,"  Manders  answered,  looking  up  and 
smiling  frankly. 

"Do  you  hear  him,  wife?"  the  man  said,  greatly 
pleased,  "Is  he  not  a  pretty  braggart?  And  who 
taught  you  to  sing,  my  master?" 

330 


MANDERS 

"  God,  monsieur." 

"  Then,  in  God's  name,  sing,  my  boy,  and  I'll  play 
for  you." 

The  woman  laughed,  but  the  man  was  serious. 
He  put  his  hand  on  the  lad's  head. 

"  You  are  right  to  say  that ;  it  is  God  who  teaches 
the  true  singer.  Well,  come,  let  us  hear  if  you  are 
one  of  His  children.  Sing ;  I'll  follow  you." 

Manders  began  singing,  the  man  accompanying  him. 
The  people  passing  paused  with  the  crowd  of  children. 
The  narrow  street  was  soon  blockaded,  and  Manders 
was  singing  alone,  for  the  man  had  stopped  playing. 
When  the  song  was  ended  Manders  looked  up  at  the 
man  in  surprise. 

"  But  you.  were  not  playing,  monsieur." 

"  No,  I  was  not  playing,  monsieur,"  said  the  man, 
with  singular  respect 

There  was  applause,  "bravos"  and  "encores,"  as 
well  as  the  clapping  of  hands,  the  woman  passing 
through  the  crowd  holding  out  her  cup  for  the  sous. 

"  Will  you  sing  again,  monsieur  ? "  asked  the  man 
at  last 

M  If  you  wish,"  Manders  replied,  smiling. 

"  Un  petit  Mario,"  said  the  man  to  the  crowd  when 
Manders  had  finished  his  second  song,  and  taking  the 
coin  of  the  two  collections  he  poured  it  into  the  lad's 
cap,  saying, — 

"  They  are  all  yours,  monsieur.  I  would  not  keep 
a  sou  of  them  if  J  were  famishing,  and,  praise  God, 
I  do  not  lack." 


MANDERS 

"But  I  want  to  sing  again  with  you  to-morrow, 
and  the  next  day,  and  the  day  after,"  Manders 
objected,  offering  to  return  the  money. 

"And  so  you  shall,  and  whenever  you  please. 
That  we  may  arrange  for  when  you  come  again  ;  but 
to-night,  monsieur,  you  are  my  guest,"  spoken  with 
a  bow  and  a  grace  of  manner  surely  not  learned  in 
the  streets. 

The  crowd  very  much  approved,  and  Manders  sang 
again  before  closing  his  cap  like  a  purse  about  his 
earnings  and  speeding  back  to  Marie,  who  would  have 
begun  to  wonder  at  his  absence. 

Entering  the  room  where  she  was  sewing,  Manders 
thrust  his  heavily- weighted  cap  into  her  lap  with  an 
affectation  of  solemn  indifference  that  did  not  wholly 
deceive  her  as  to  his  excited  state  of  mind. 

"  There  is  something  for  you,"  he  said  carelessly. 

She  held  apart  the  sides  of  the  cap,  looking  in 
curiously,  and  exclaiming  with  half -fearful  astonish- 
ment,— 

"  Money  I    What  have  you  been  doing  ? ' 

"Singing." 

In  spite  of  him  a  triumphant  note  leaped  out  with 
the  word.  He  knew  himself  betrayed.  No  good  of 
further  pretence.  He  flung  his  arms  round  her  neck 
and  abandoned  himself  to  his  joy.  He  gave  her  no 
time  to  ask  questions  or  interpose  objections  until  he 
had  run  through  the  experience  of  the  hour  and  given 
it  an  enthusiastic  application  to  the  possibilities  of 
their  future. 


MANDERS 

"  111  make  you  rich,  maman !  They  are  going  to 
love  to  hear  me  sing !  And  when  I  sing  they'll  pay  ! 
Old  Antoine  said  so  i  " 

She  shared  none  ot  this  enthusiasm.  Terror 
played  with  her  heart-strings. 

"  You  have  been  singing  in  the  streets  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  and  I'm  going  to  do  it  regularly  now." 

He  grew  smaller  and  smaller  in  her  eyes.  It  was 
her  baby-boy  again,  and  he  singing  in  the  streets! 
The  streets,  with  their  perils,  their  many  perils  and 
dangers;  and  he  going  here  and  there  throughout 
them,  threatened  by  their  dangers,  touched  by  their 
vicel 

"  I  cannot  let  you  do  this,"  she  said ;  "  I  am  very 
angry  with  you."  But  her  anger  was  pitifully  near 
to  tears. 

"Then  count  the  sous,"  he  replied  gaily,  taking 
up  a  handful  and  beginning  to  count  them  himself, 
noisily,  that  he  might  not  hear  her  remonstrancea 

He  put  the  sous  in  heaps  of  twenties,  saying  now 
and  then,  "I  can't  count  if  you  talk,  maman,"  but 
keeping  on  industriously  until  his  task  was  done  and 
verified. 

"  Look  there,  maman  i  a  hundred  sous  and  a  half 
franc  piece  I  Five  francs  and  a  half  in  an  hour  1 
And  you  scolding  1  You  should  be  dancing  about 
and  clapping  your  hands!  You  ought  to  be  very 
glad  and  proud  that  I  can  earn  so  much  money  so 
easily!" 

"I  ain  proud  and  glad  that  you  have  A  voice 
«33 


MANDERS 

the  people  love  so  well  to  hear.  But,  my  boy,  my 
pretty  little  boy,  must  not  sing  in  the  streets,  and  I  do 
not  need  to  have  him  earn  money  for  me.  I  can  earn 
for  both.  By-and-by,  when  he  is  big,  he  may  earn 
for  me." 

She  stroked  the  curls  back  from  his  forehead, 
smiling  to  see  what  seemed  to  her  a  look  of  dis- 
appointment in  his  eyes.  It  was  not  disappoint- 
ment, however,  as  she  understood  when,  steadily 
gazing  into  her  face,  he  said,  the  tremor  of  mastered 
feeling  in  his  voice, — 

"  I  heard  what  Mere  Pugens  said  to  you  a  while  ago." 
A  drooping  of  the  head  by  ever  so  little  and  a  lower- 
ing of  the  eyelids  on  Marie's  part.  She  said  nothing. 
She  knew  there  was  an  end  of  protest.  The  question 
was  settled.  Manders  was  master.  Manders  knew  it 
as  well  as  she,  and  he  relented.  He  put  up  his  arms 
to  caress  her,  saying  consolingly, — 

"  Only  in  the  evenings,  maman,  when  I  have  come 
home  from  school.  I  shall  tell  old  Antoine  that.  And 
you  know  old  Antoine  will  take  good  care  of  me.  It 
is  going  to  be  great  fun." 

So  Manders  became  a  street  minstrel,  finding  it  not 
all  fun,  for  there  were  foot-weariness  and  cold  and 
rain  and  a  tightness  in  the  throat  sometimes,  and 
there  were  seldom  five  francs  to  his  portion  when  the 
last  song  was  sung  in  the  street  below  Marie's  windows. 
But  none  of  the  heartaches  or  weariness  came  home 
to  Marie.  He  brought  laughter  and  gladness  and 
triumph  to  her,  rattling  his  sous  down  upon  the  table 

834 


MANDERS 

with  so  much  satisfaction,  counting  them  over  with 
such  pride  of  doing  that  Marie  came  by  degrees  to  be  as 
merry  and  as  happy  as  he  over  their  evening  accounts, 
and  to  call  him  proudly  "Monsieur  le  pourvoyeur." 
And  she  was  so  gay  with  nim,  he  did  not  notice,  as 
the  winter  wore  on,  that  the  roses  and  the  roundness 
were  going  from  her  cheeks ;  he  could  not  imagine 
that  in  her  lonely  hours  she  sometimes  put  aside  her 
work  through  lassitude  and  lay  upon  her  bed  languor- 
ously waiting  to  hear  his  steps  upon  the  stair  to 
revive  her  energy.  The  welcome  he  expected  was 
never  wanting.  The  smile  he  loved  to  see  as  he  came 
into  the  candle-light  was  always  on  her  lips.  Her 
words  were  never  without  the  tender  lightness  that 
filled  his  heart  with  contentment.  He  knew  nothing 

o 

of  ebbing  vitalities.  He  had  not  learned  yet  that  the 
smile  of  summer  is  the  burning  out  of  the  year's  life. 
All  is  well  where  laughter  is,  in  a  child's  philosophy ; 
and  where  was  sweeter  laughter  than  Marie's  ? 

But  Mere  Pugens  and  Miss  Warley,  too,  saw  with 
worldlier  eyes,  and  the  one  was  angry  and  the  other 
sighed.  Down  there  in  the  Midi  was  the  breath  of 
regeneration,  if,  as  the  one  argued,  folly  were  not  a 
self-willed  blindness,  if,  as  the  other  thought,  poverty 
were  not  a  tyrant. 

And  one  day  in  the  mid-April  this  clear-sighted- 
ness came  to  Manders  in  the  sunshine  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg. The  chestnuts  were  just  spreading  out  the 
delicate  green  folds  of  their  fan-like  leaves,  and  the 
garden  was  thronged  with  children  and  their  elders 

»35 


MANDERS 

rejoicing  in  the  soft  freshness  of  the  warm  air.  It 
was  the  end  of  the  Easter  holidays,  and  Marie,  find- 
ing no  good  excuse  to  plead,  had  consented  to  come 
down  in  the  morning  for  a  frolic  among  the  re- 
appearing beauties  of  the  garden.  Manders  rebuked 
her  want  of  animation,  and  laughed  at  her  when  she 
sank  down  on  to  the  first  bench  they  came  to,  profess- 
ing herself  tired. 

"  It  is  so  warm  walking,  dearie,"  she  said,  with  a 
strange  little  smile  of  apology. 

But  he  humoured  her,  and  sat  beside  her,  watching 
the  children  at  their  games. 

Presently  she  drew  her  cape  closely  about  her, 
coughed,  and  said  faintly,  with  a  shiver, — 

"I  am  so  cold." 

The  sun  blazed  hot  upon  them. 

He  looked  up  into  her  face  to  laugh  at  her,  but  a 
chill  went  through  him. 

"  Oh  1 "  he  said  in  scarcely  more  than  a  whisper. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

PUQENS  had  hardly  got  her  shop  open  the 
following  morning  and  her  papers  ranged  on  the 
exterior  shelves  under  the  window  when  Manders, 
haggard  as  one  who  had  kept  a  long,  hard  vigil, 
came  hurrying  in,  too  preoccupied  with  a  fixed  idea 
to  think  of  greeting  her. 

"  Who  is  the  best  doctor,  Mere  Pugens  ? " 

"Has  anything  happened?"  she  asked,  rising 
anxiously. 

"  No,"  he  answered  to  her  great  comfort. 

Then  she  went  on  in  her  usual  way,  thinking  to 
soothe  his  childish  fears, — 

"Bless  your  heart,  little  one,  there  are  many  of 
them.  And  the  best  doctors  are  not  always  the  ones 
that  do  the  most  good.  One  doctor  is  as  good  as 
another  for  some  things,  for  there  are  some  things  for 
which  none  of  them  are  any  good  at  all — except  for 
their  cheapness.  Now  there  is  Monsieur  Wimphen 
just  round  the  corner — " 

"  But  who  is  the  best  ? "  interrupted  Manders  im- 
patiently, and  turning  toward  the  door. 

"  Well,  there  is  Monsieur  Besnard,  in  the  Boulevarde 
St  Germaine,  near  the  Rue  de  Bac,  who,  everybody 
knows,  was  called  into  the  Louvre  at  the  time—" 

237 


MANDERS 

But  Manders  had  only  waited  for  the  name  and 
address,  and  was  down  the  street  at  a  run  before 
Mere  Pugens  had  come  to  the  end  of  her  sentence. 
He  abated  nothing  of  his  pace  until  he  arrived  at  the 
Rue  de  Bac  and  breathless  inquired  of  a  footman 
which  was  the  residence  of  the  Doctor  Besnard.  He 
rang  the  bell  of  the  mansion  and  entered  into  a  court 
as  the  door  opened  as  if  automatically,  and  stood 
there  waiting,  uncertain  which  way  to  go.  A  servant 
appeared  and  demanded  his  business,  smiling  in  a 
superior  way  when  Manders  declared  his  wish  to 
see  the  doctor.  Doctor  Besnard  was  hardly  at  the 
call  of  unknown  urchins  who  came  panting  in  from 
the  streets. 

"  Who  sent  you  ? " 

"I  came  myself,"  said  Manders;  "it  is  necessary 
that  I  see  Doctor  Besnard  myself,"  he  continued 
insistently. 

"He  has  no  time.  You  must  go,  unless  you  tell 
me  who  it  is  wants  the  doctor."  The  man  put  his 
hand  on  Manders's  shoulder  and  moved  him  toward 
the  door. 

Manders,  with  a  quick  movement,  slipped  from 
the  servant's  grasp  and  ran  back  into  the  centre 
of  the  court,  looking  up  at  the  windows  and  call- 
ing out  desperately  with  all  the  power  of  his 
lungs,— 

"Doctor  Besnard!     Doctor  Besnard!" 

The  servant  followed  angrily  to  retake  him,  clutched 
him  by  the  arm,  and  was  dragging  him,  struggling 

238 


MANDERS 

and    still    calling,    toward    the    door    when    Doctor 
Besnard  looked  out  from  a  first  floor  window. 

"What  is  it,  Joseph?"  he  demanded. 

"Let  me  speak  to  Doctor  Besnard,"  called  out 
Manders,  pitifully,  addressing  himself  to  the  bene- 
volent face  at  the  window. 

"  Bring  the  boy  up,  Joseph,"  said  the  doctor,  and 
retired  into  the  room. 

"  What  is  it  you  wish  ? "  asked  the  doctor,  kindly, 
when  Manders  came  before  him. 

"My  maman  is  ill.  You  must  come  to  see  her 
right  away." 

The  child's  manner  pleased  him. 

"And  who  is  your  maman,  my  lad?  Where 
does  she  live. 

"Madame  Manders.  She  lives  in  the  Rue  St 
Jacques,  the  fourth  floor,  to  the  right;  I'll  show 
you  the  way." 

"And  who  is  to  pay  me?"  an  amused  smile  on 
the  lips  of  the  doctor  not  used  to  seeking  patients 
in  the  Rue  St  Jacques. 

"I  shall  pay  you,  monsieur." 

The  doctor  looked  into  the  young  firm  face  up- 
raised to  his  so  confidently.  It  was  not  a  face  to 
laugh  into,  and  the  smile  went  away  from  his  lips. 
But  he  said  again, — 

"I  haven't  the  time,  my  lad.  I'll  send  you  to 
someone  who  will  do  as  well,  and  who  will  not 
charge  you  so  much.  You  know  they  say  I  rob 
my  patients,  and  I  should  not  want  to  rob  you." 

239 


MANDERS 

"But  I  have  the  money  to  give  you.  You  will 
not  have  to  rob  me.  It  is  all  yours  if  you  will 
make  my  maman  well  Here  it  is  —  ten  francs, 
monsieur." 

He  took  from  his  pockets  the  sous  and  silver 
pieces  that  were  his  earnings  for  the  last  four 
days  and  heaped  them  on  the  table. 

"You  may  count  them.  There  are  quite  ten 
francs." 

"  Ah !  ten  francs  is  a  good  deal  of  money,  my  boy. 
I  should  not  want  as  much  as  that.  I'll  take  my 
share." 

He  gravely  counted  out  two  francs  hi  sous,  shov- 
ing the  rest  toward  Manders,  and  rang  the  bell 
Joseph  appeared. 

"  At  what  hour  is  my  first  engagement  this  morn- 
ing, Joseph?" 

"Eleven  o'clock,  monsieur." 

"  Plenty  of  time.  Order  the  carriage.  Ill  go  with 
you  to  see  your  maman,  my  lad." 

When  they  entered  her  room,  Marie,  who  had  risen 
to  meet  Manders,  fixed  a  startled,  half-terrified  look 
upon  the  doctor,  and  sank  down,  trembling,  upon  her 
bed.  She  realised  that  Manders  had  found  out  her 
secret.  Doctor  Besnard  had  no  need  to  ask  questions. 
His  experienced  eye  diagnosed  the  case  at  once. 

"Madame,  your  boy  thinks  that  I  should  have  a 
talk  with  you,  and  scold  you  a  little,  perhaps.  Well, 
run  away,  my  child,  for  half  an  hour.  Then  I'll  tell 
you  what  we  must  do." 

940 


MANDERS 

Handera  went  down  the  stairs.  Doctor  Besnard 
drew  up  a  chair  beside  Marie,  in  whose  eyes  the  tears 
were  gathering,  and  took  her  hand.  Very  gentle 
and  paternal  and  comforting  of  presence  was  Doctor 
Besnard. 

"  And  yon  know,  madame  ? "  he  asked  after  a  time. 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  she  answered,  the  tears  falling, 
though  there  was  a  faint  smile  on  the  lips. 

"And  you  know  what  brought  it  about?"  She 
cast  down  her  eyes,  making  no  answer.  "  I  am  your 
physician,  you  know.  You  must  be  frank  with  me." 

"  In  the  winter,  a  year  ago,  I  passed  a  whole  night 
on  the  quais — "  She  hesitated. 

"  Thinking  of  the  water  ? " 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

*  But  remembering  your  boy  f  " 

"Oh!  yes,  yes,  monsieur — remembering  my  boy!" 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands  and  weeping  un- 
restrainedly. 

"  And  then  the  cough  began  I* 

"  Then  the  cough  began." 

He  studied  her  in  silence  for  some  time,  then 
said, — 

"  There  is  something  besides  the  cough.  Are  you  in 
sorrow  ?  Are  you  grieving  ?  " 

"  No,  monsieur." 

"  Are  you  sure  ? " 

"There  is  nothing,  monsieur  —  only  —  only  the 
thought  of  leaving  my  boy." 

"  No ;  that  thought  would  make  for  health.    It  is 


MANDERS 

not   that.      There  is  a   disappointment?      A  heart- 
hunger,  madame  ? " 

"No,  nothing  like  that."  But  her  hand  warmed 
in  his  clasp. 

"I  thought  so,"  he  said  to  himself,  but  he  knew 
she  would  make  no  admission,  and  he  felt  his  help- 
lessness. 

"A  happy  heart  and  a  peaceful  mind,"  he  said, 
"would  do  more  for  you  than  all  the  medicines  in 
the  world." 

Manders  had  not  returned  when  the  doctor  rose 
to  go. 

"  I'll  come  to  see  you  again,"  he  said,  bidding  her 
good-bye.  And  going  down  the  stairs,  which  seemed 
to  him  steep  and  dismal,  he  said,  "I'll  come  for 
the  boy's  sake.  I'll  earn  my  two  francs — but  it  is 
robbery  after  all" 

Manders  was  waiting  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs. 
He  looked  up  mutely  into  the  doctor's  face. 

"It  is  all  right,  my  little  man,"  said  the  doctor, 
cheerily.  "  But  you  must  be  very  happy  where  she 
is.  Make  her  laugh  all  you  can.  But  she  mustn't 
go  up  and  down  these  stairs  for  a  while.  Yet  you 
must  live.  Ten  francs  won't  last  for  ever.  How 
will  you  get  any  more  if  the  maman  cannot  work  ?  " 

"I  can  earn  plenty,  monsieur." 

"And  how  old  are  you,  my  lad?" 

"I  shall  be  eight  next  month." 

"  Eight  1  And  what  can  you  do  to  earn  BO  much 
money  ? " 

242 


MANDERS 

"  Sing,  monsieur." 

Doctor  Besnard's  thumb  and  finger  were  on  a  gold 
piece  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  as  he  looked  at  the  lad, 
but  he  did  not  draw  it  forth.  He  put  out  his  hand 
instead  as  man  to  man,  and  said,  as  Manders  took  it, — 

"  Sometime  I  should  like  to  hear  you  sing." 

That  afternoon,  when  Manders  met  Antoine  and  his 
old  wife  at  the  appointed  place,  he  said, — 

"  I  am  not  going  to  sing  with  you  any  more  after 
to-day.w 

"You  are  to  stop  singing  I"  exclaimed  Antoine, 
protestingly. 

"  No,  I'm  not  to  stop  singing,  but  I'm  going  to  sing 
alone.  I  want  to  make  all  the  money  I  can  for 
myself." 

Antoine  gazed  at  him  stupefied.  The  old  woman 
laughed  jeeringly. 

"  I  knew  how  it  would  be,"  she  said,  "  the  little 
egotist !  I've  seen  his  airs  !  Never  smiling  when 
the  people  applauded.  Tears  in  his  eyes  sometimes, 
too.  Spiteful  because  there  were  not  sous  enough !  It 
is  a  thousand  pities  when  the  soul  of  a  miser  gets  into 
a  child !  Good  riddance !  good  riddance !  let  him  go 
now,  Antoine  1  He  has  spoiled  our  trade  as  it  is. " 

"  Have  we  been  unfair  with  you  ? "  Antoine  asked, 
troubled. 

"You  have  been  fair.  You  have  been  more  than 
fair,  you  have  been  kind.  I'll  come  to  you  again 
when  maman  is  well  It  is  for  her  sake  now.  She 
is  too  ill  to  work.  I  must  earn  for  both." 

243 


MANDERS 

"But  the  three  of  us  draw  larger  crowds  than 
would  come  for  one ;  and  it  is  the  size  of  the  crowd 
that  decides  the  size  of  the  purse." 

"I've  been  thinking  it  over,"  said  Manders,  with 
a  gravity  which  even  Antoine  smiled  to  see,  "  and  I 
think  this,  Monsieur  Antoine,  when  I  am  with  you 
and  madanie  the  people  think  I  belong  to  you  and 
that  you  take  care  of  me,  and  they  are  not  so  ready 
with  their  sous  and  fifty-centime  pieces.  But  if 
I  sang  all  alone — " 

"They  would  sympathise  with  you  more?** 
Antoine  interrupted. 

"It  is  not  that,"  Monsieur  Antoine,  Manders  an- 
swered, a  tinge  of  something  like  resentment  in  his 
voice ;  "  but  if  they  saw  me  alone  they  would  know  I 
was  working  for  someone  not  able  to  work  for  herself, 
and  they  would  be  glad  to  pay  me  all  my  songs  were 
worth  to  them." 

Antoine  was  not  so  sure  of  the  soundness  of  the 
reasoning,  but  he  put  his  large  hand  on  the  boy's 
shoulder  in  a  way  at  once  forgiving  and  encouraging 
as  he  said, — 

"  I  understand  you,  my  boy.  You  are  a  fine  little 
chap,  and  I  see  that  you  are  not  deserting  friends. 
Go  your  way.  If  all  goes  well  with  you  so  much  the 
better.  If  not,  you  can  always  find  old  Antoine,  as 
long  as  he  keeps  out  of  the  Morgue." 

So  Manders  began  the  life  of  self-reliance,  and  hope 
was  ashamed  to  mock  him.  He  soon  learned  to  go 
where  the  crowds  were  gayest  and  freest,  crossing  to 

044 


MANDERS 

the  right  bank,  making  long  pilgrimages  along  the 
grand  boulevards  and  into  the  Champs  filyse'es,  re- 
turning foot-weary  but  heart-light  to  sing  his  last 
song  below  the  window  where  Marie  sat  waiting  his 
coming — waiting  his  coming  but  always  fearing  that 
he  would  not  come. 

For  some  months  the  music  lessons  had  been  given 
in  Marie's  salon,  Miss  Warley  having  ordered  in  a 
small  upright  piano,  the  explanations  concerning 
which  had  never  been  very  clear  to  Marie,  though 
she  got  the  impression  that  Miss  Warley  had  it  at  a 
bargain  but  could  not  give  it  room  in  her  own  house, 
where  there  was  "already  one  piano  too  many." 
When  Manders  became  aware  of  Marie's  illness  and 
feebleness,  he  wished  to  stop  the  music  lessons,  as  he 
stopped  the  going  to  school,  in  order  to  devote  all  the 
time  not  claimed  by  his  professional  duties  to  caring 
for  her.  But  Marie  found  pleasure  in  these  lessons, 
over  the  results  of  which  Miss  Warley  was  so  enthusi- 
astic, and  Manders  went  on  with  them  for  her  sake. 
They  became  the  daily  important  features  of  the 
morning,  and  for  some  reason  Miss  Warley  and 
Manders  seemed  to  grow  happier  and  happier  over 
them,  so  that  Marie  would  often  come  in  to  be  happy 
with  them,  sometimes  humming  through  the  air  as 
Manders  played,  and  joining  with  him  in  one  of  the 
little  songs  he  sang  to  tempt  her.  And  he  began  to 
imagine  that  after  all  Marie  was  not  so  very  ill,  fixing 
a  great  faith  on  Doctor  Besnard's  low  answer  to  his 
low  question  one  day. 

245 


MANDERS 

"  She  won't  be  ill  much  longer." 

His  nights  were  troubled,  however,  and  he  wondered 
how  it  was  that  he  could  never  catch  her  sleeping. 
He  would  steal  into  her  room  when  she  had  been 
silent  a  longer  time  than  usual,  but  he  could  not  be 
so  noiseless  that  she  would  not  ask, — 

"  What  is  it,  dearie  ? " 

One  night,  though,  she  waked  him  with  her  moan- 
ing and  talking.  He  ran  to  her,  affrighted,  and  knelt 
beside  the  bed,  whispering, — 

"  You  want  me,  maman  ?    I  am  here." 

But  she  was  sleeping,  her  thoughts  not  taking 
account  of  him  at  all.  He  waited,  not  daring  to 
wake  her.  It  was  of  "Walter"  she  was  dreaming, 
and  she  was  calling  to  him,  "  Shall  I  never  see  you 
again?"  and  her  cheeks  were  wet  to  his  trembling, 
light  touch.  He  knelt  there  until  the  talking  sub- 
sided into  a  murmur  and  silence  came  with  a  sigh. 
And  he  knelt  there  still  when  the  grey  light  stole  in 
through  the  curtained  window,  thinking  that  his 
prayers  were  bringing  her  this  calm  and  restful  sleep. 

Manders  met  Miss  Warley  at  the  top  of  the  stairs 
when  she  came  for  the  morning  lesson. 

"  Do  you  know  where  M.  Blakemore  is  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Miss  Warley,  wondering. 

"  Tell  him  my  maman  wants  him." 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THE  maples  were  decking  themselves  in  their  October 
finery,  setting  the  mocking  birds  mad  again,  when 
Blakemore  found  himself  once  more  installed  in  the 
grove  cottage  at  Waldmeer.  He  was  making  good  use 
of  his  time  in  the  matter  of  doing  the  "  effective  bits," 
which  seemed  to  multiply  under  Florence's  direction. 
Monsieur  Monier  would  hardly  have  been  ashamed 
of  his  former  pupil  in  these  days,  for  Blakemore 
had  overcome  the  obduracies  of  his  brush  to  an 
astonishing  extent  and  produced  results  that  seemed 
to  Florence  indicative  of  a  very  considerable  talent 
The  work  in  hand  now  was  a  dilapidated  well-house, 
long  ago  abandoned  as  a  water  supply,  but  alive 
enough  for  artistic  purposes.  Florence,  in  white,  was 
posed  on  the  steps,  her  back  against  one  of  the 
decaying,  lichen-covered  posts  which  supported  the 
tumbling  roof,  and  Re'ne'  Papi,  an  Italian-negro  half- 
bred  who  insisted  on  calling  himself  a  French  Creole, 
was  in  the  act  of  drawing  a  bucket  of  water.  The 
forenoon  was  systematically  devoted  to  work  on  this 
exacting  subject,  which  increased  the  expense  by 
some  few  dimes,  as  Rene,  notorious  throughout  the 
village  of  indolence  for  his  loyalty  to  idleness,  de- 

247 


MANDERS 

clared,  with  innumerable  apologetic  gestures  and 
cajoling  smiles,  that  his  "mos*  busy  time  happen 
always  in  the  morning  as  a  sure  fac',  an'  'bliged  to 
charge  for  the  loss  of  his  own  work." 

Re'ne'  was  fisherman,  boatman,  carpenter,  driver, 
gardener,  as  circumstances  dictated  when  he  could 
allow  himself  the  luxury  of  doing  anything  at  all. 
He  had  got  through  forty  years  of  life  with  so  little 
anxiety  of  mind  and  such  small  waste  of  energy  that 
he  seemed  no  more  than  thirty-two  or  three,  and  was 
not  an  unattractive  figure,  with  his  long,  black  hair 
never  combed,  his  well-managed  moustache,  half- 
concealing  a  sensuous  but  smiling  mouth,  his  loose 
cotton  shirt,  innocent  of  buttons  and  rolling  open 
half-way  to  his  belt,  showing  a  brown  expanse  of 
vigorous  chest,  his  bare  arms  testifying  to  a  suf- 
ficiency of  mysteriously-acquired  muscle.  Blakemore 
had  first  seen  him  helping  to  unload  an  oyster  boat 
at  one  of  the  market  piers.  He  went  about  what  he 
was  doing  in  such  a  leisurely,  indifferent  way,  and 
seemed  so  much  readier  to  talk  than  to  get  his 
barrow  from  the  boat  to  the  oyster  stalls,  that 
Blakemore,  after  watching  him  some  time,  spoke 
to  him. 

"You  are  paid  by  the  day,  I  suppose?"  he  said 
inquiringly. 

"  Oh,  no,  suh,  I  only  works  by  job,"  Re*ne*  answered, 
laughing,  and  promptly  setting  down  his  empty 
barrow  to  relieve  his  arms  of  strain  during  con- 
versatioa 

248 


MANDERS 

"You  don't  seem  to  be  in  any  hurry  to  get 
through." 

"Oh!  I  don*  want  a  git  rich  all  at  once.  Plenty 
time  for  that." 

"You  expect  to  be  rich,  then?" 

"  Bime-by.  Mebbe.  Who  knows  ?  But  not  much 
use  being  rich.  When  I  has  money  I  has  to  spend  it. 
Ain't  no  sense  working  for  what  you  has  to  git  rid  o' 
right  away.  Ain't  that  yo'  idee,  boss  ? " 

"Can  you  sib  still  in  one  position  long?" 

"  That  'pends  what  I'm  sittin'  on."  R4n<$  chuckled 
in  appreciation  of  his  own  humour. 

"  Oh !  on  something  comfortable  enough." 

"That's  my  stronghold,  boss,"  Re*n£  said  with  a 
freer  chuckle. 

"  Well,  I  want  to  hire  you  to  sit  still  for  me." 

Ren4  prepared  to  take  up  his  barrow. 

"  I  see  you  likes  to  have  yo'  fun,  suh.  You  is  jes' 
like  me  that-a-way.  But  I  mus'  be  gittin'  on.  Hope 
I'll  see  you  some  mo'  ?  " 

Blakemore  explained  his  object  and  the  bargain 
was  made,  Re'ne*  stipulating  for  Mfou'  bits"  as  the 
reward  of  his  sacrifice  of  serious  labour  in  the  pro- 
fitable hours  of  the  morning,  though  this  was  a  sum 
that  represented  the  highest  day's  earnings  in  his 
most  industrious  periods. 

Re*n^  had  all  the  characteristics  of  a  mulatto,  but 
as  he  spoke  the  bastard  French  of  the  region  he  felt 
warranted  in  classifying  himself  with  the  Creoles, 
and  indignantly  repudiated  his  negro  moiety,  uud, 

249 


MANDERS 

preferring  a  French  to  an  Italian  begetting,  avowed 
that  his  father  was  French  and  his  mother  Indian, 
generally  adding  to  the  statement  the  gratuity, — 

"  An'  to  judge  by  the  way  I  feel,  my  mer'  was  one 
them  princes." 

At  any  rate,  Re'ne  fitted  beautifully  into  the  picture 
of  which  Florence  was  the  conspicuous  figure,  and 
Blakemore  began  to  think  that  the  investment  was 
one  happily  directed  to  the  making  of  a  picture  in 
which  he  imagined  he  was  putting  a  great  deal  of 
meaning. 

"  Ain't  yo'  been  a  heap  longer  this  mawnin'  ? "  said 
Re'ne',  some  days  after  posing  had  ceased  to  be  a 
novelty  and  had  grown  into  a  dismaying  resemblance 
to  hard  work.  "My  back  gittin'  tired  leaning  over 
this-a-way.  Feels  like  it  ready  break  in  two." 

"  Yes,  we'll  stop,  Re'ne',"  Blakemore  said,  with  a 
smile,  but  giving  the  canvas  some  further  touches. 
"You'd  better  -come  here  and  see  how  you  look, 
though." 

Re*n£  obeyed  eagerly.  Indeed,  he  was  being  kept 
in  service  now  by  an  increasing  vanity  rather  than 
by  the  pay  which  he  was  beginning  to  think  small 
reward  for  so  much  exertion.  From  the  day  he  could 
detect  the  coming  likeness  to  himself  in  the  figure  at 
the  well,  he  had  become  inflated  with  self-opinion, 
and  his  impatience  to  see  his  portrait  finished  made 
him  dissatisfied  with  the  greater  attention  Blakemore 
was  giving  to  that  of  Florence. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ? "  Blakemore  asked 
350 


MANDERS 

when  Re'ne'  had  some  time  regarded  the  picture  to  the 
amusement  of  the  others. 

"  I  think,  suh,  that  yo'  gittin*  that  chest  o'  mine  too 
flat,  and  that's  a  sure  fac',"  said  Re'ne'  in  an  aggrieved 
voice,  and  giving  a  confirmatory  thump  to  his  own 
firm  front  "  They  ain't  'nother  chest  like  this  in 
Balouis,  an'  I  hates  to  see  it  spiled." 

Blakemore  laughingly  reassured  him  and  sent  him 
off  to  other  and  more  congenial  labours,  those  in 
which  he  could  "  shift "  his  position  once  in  a  while. 

"  I  sympathise  with  Re'ne',"  Florence  said.  "  I 
always  feel  after  one  of  these  ordeals  that  I'd  like  to 
get  on  a  horse  astride  and  go  tearing  down  the  road 
to  find  myself.  It  is  the  most  exasperating,  tedious 
thing  I  ever  did.  Nothing  could  induce  me  to  pose 
for  another  picture." 

"  How  do  you  like  the  way  it  is  coming  on  ?  " 

"Very  well.  But  I  don't  think  Rent's  objection 
applies  to  my  case.  It  is  rather  the  other  way,  isn't 
it?  I  think  you  will  have  to  subdue  that  a  little. 
A  trifle  less  fulness,  I  should  say." 

"  A  touch  or  two  will  make  that  right.  Though  I 
don't  think  it  so  much  amiss." 

"  Of  course  we  have  a  different  point  of  view,"  she 
said ;  "  but  if  that  is  true  to  life,  please  exercise  a 
modifying  license.  My  actual  measure  is  thirty-two 
inches.  That  looks  forty." 

He  painted  for  a  few  minutes,  she  looking  on 
critically,  marvelling  to  see  how  great  a  change  a 
simple  brush-stroke  could  make  in  a  general  effect. 

251 


MANDERS 

"  How  is  that  ? "  he  finally  asked. 

"  Better.  Much  better.  I  breathe  freely  again.  I 
can  eat  my  luncheon  with  a  clearer  conscience.  And 
isn't  it  luncheon  time  ? " 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  Gather  up  your  traps.     I'll  carry  the  stool." 

She  strolled  on  to  the  cottage,  leaving  him  to 
follow  at  his  convenience.  She  was  sitting  on  the 
porch  steps,  waiting,  when  Jerry  came  from  the  house 
with  some  letters  in  his  hand. 

"  Jes'  come  f um  de  pos'  office,  Miss  Flaw'nce,  an'  I 
thought  yo'  might  like  to  have  me  fetch  yo'  these 
here.  One  is  for  Mr  Blakemore,  Miss  Leshy  say. 
Which  is  his'n,  Miss  Flaw'nce,  an'  wha'  is  he?" 

"I'll  give  it  to  him,  Uncle  Jerry." 

"  I  'spec'  I  kin  trus'  yo'  to  do  dat,  Miss  Flaw'nce," 
said  Jerry,  with  a  broad,  meaningful  grin,  as  he 
handed  her  the  letters.  "  Has  yo'  got  any  orders  for 
me,  Miss  Flaw'nce  ? ' 

"  No,  Uncle  Jerry,"  she  answered,  looking  over  the 
three  or  four  letters. 

"  'Bleeged  to  you,  Miss  Flaw'nce,"  Jerry  said,  with  a 
pull  at  his  hat  and  turning  back  to  the  house. 

The  letter  for  Blakemore  was  postmarked  Paris, 
and  had  been  forwarded  from  his  New  York  address. 
She  laid  it  on  the  porch  and  opened  one  of  her 
own  letters.  Blakemore  came  up  before  she  had 
finished  it. 

"  Here  is  a  letter  for  you,"  she  said,  holding  it  out 
to  him. 


MANDERS 

"  Thank  you.  Um.  It's  from  Miss  Warley.  You 
don't  mind  my  looking  at  it  ?  Queer  sort  of  straight 
up-and-down  woman,  didn't  you  think?  Writes  to 
me  regularly  without  having  anything  to  say  that 
is  worth  while.  That  is  what  conscientiousness  does 
for  one." 

"  Do  read  your  letter  and  let  me  finish  mine !  You 
are  a  regular  chatter-box."  She  squared  around, 
leaning  her  elbow  on  one  of  the  top  steps,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  forget  him  in  the  interest  of  her  letter. 

Blakemore  opened  his  letter  indifferently,  and  yet, 
too,  with  enough  curiosity  to  wish  that  Miss  Warley 
might  be  more  communicative  than  usual  about 
someone  besides  Mandera.  Her  last  two  letters  had 
said  nothing  whatever  of  Marie,  which  was  more 
disquieting  than  the  one  or  two  vague  references  to 
Marie's  illness,  which  Miss  Warley  had  made  in  her 
cautious  way.  In  one  of  these  letters,  the  last  one, 
there  was  something  not  very  clear  about  Manders 
having  joined  a  band  of  street  singers,  though  Blake- 
more  imagined  this  was  no  more  than  a  neighbour- 
hood pastime,  one  of  the  boy's  strange  caprices.  He 
had  no  idea  of  the  real  conditions,  not  the  shadow 
of  a  suspicion  that  anything  serious  was  the  matter 
with  Marie.  He  was  therefore  shocked  and  passion- 
ately grieved  by  the  unusual  letter  now  in  his  hand, 
and  which  was  blurred  by  unmistakable  tear-stains. 

"  Madame  Manders  is  ill,  very  ill.  I  haven't  wanted 
to  tell  you  so  long  as  I  could  believe  that  there  was 
any  hope.  Three  days  ago,  when  she  seemed  brighter 

253 


MANDERS 

and  better  than  she  had  been  for  some  weeks,  I 
spoke  cheerfully  to  Doctor  Besnard — who  has  been  a 
noble  friend — about  her.  He  shook  his  head.  "  Poor 
child !  "  he  said.  "  When  the  leaves  begin  falling — 
well,  she  will  be  one  of  them."  Still  I  put  off  writing. 
But  this  morning  Manders  came  to  me  with  a  look 
in  his  face  that  made  my  heart  bleed,  and  he  said 
to  me,  "  Tell  Mr  Blakemore  that  my  maman  wants 
him."  I  send  you  his  message.  It  was  in  her  sleep 
she  called  to  you.  She  talked  a  great  deal,  Manders 
said,  but  he  told  me  nothing.  I  have  never  heard 
her  speak  of  you,  but  if  she  talks  of  you  in  her  dreams 
she  must  think  of  you.  Forgive  me  for  beginning 
to  think  that  she  has  a  reason."  A  sigh  that  was 
like  a  groan  escaped  him,  and  Florence  looked  up, 
startled.  His  face  was  pale  and  troubled. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  she  asked.     "  Bad  news  ?  " 

He  >  -nded  the  letter  to  her  silently.  She  read 
it,  folded  it,  and  drew  the  nails  of  her  thumb  and 
finger  sharply  along  the  edges,  creasing  the  paper 
more  tightly,  again  unfolded  it  and  read  over  again 
the  message  from  Manders  and  Miss  Warley's  com- 
ment, then  handed  the  letter  back  to  Blakemore. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  asked  in  her 
usual  even  voice. 

"You  understand?" 

"I  understand." 

"  And — and  you  are  not  angry  ?  n 

"  Angry  1  why  should  I  be  angry  ?  I  have  known 
it  since  the  day  I  saw  you  with  her  at  St  Cloud." 

254 


MANDERS 

"No,"  he  said,  earnestly  protesting,  "it  wasn't  so 
then.  You  misjudge  her — you  misunderstand,  She 
has  never  been — "  he  hesitated. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  curious  change  of 
expression,  a  quick  transition  from  indifference  to 
interest.  She  realised  instinctively  what  was  im- 
plied by  his  hesitation  and  the  guilty  eagerness  of 
his  look. 

"  It  was  not  a  liaison  ? "  she  asked. 

"  No,  no !  a  thousand  times  no !  She  was  not 
a  woman  of  that  sort.  She  was  not  to  blame.  The 
blame  rests  on  me  alone.  I  wronged  her." 

"She — loved  you?  She  believed  that  you  loved 
her  ?  Well  ?  You  abandoned  her  ? " 

"No,  I  was  willing  to  do  anything  I  could.  It 
was  she  who  decided." 

"  You  let  her  decide  ? " 

"  I  could  not  do  otherwise." 

"And  you  compromised  by  agreeing  to  educate 
her  boy.  You  are  paying  your  debt  that  way  ?  " 

"She  knows  nothing  of  that.  She  never  would 
have  agreed  to  such  a  thing." 

Florence  looked  steadily  at  him  for  some  moments 
in  silence,  a  barely  perceptible  smile  on  her  lips. 

"I  understand  it  now,"  she  said  at  length.  "I 
can  put  a  new  interpretation  on  her  manner  with 
me  the  day  I  called  on  her.  She  did  not  give 
herself  to  a  chance  lover;  she  was  betrayed  by 
an  ideal.  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"What  can  I  do?" 


MANDERS 

"Must  I  fcell  you?  Go  back  to  this  woman. 
Pay  your  debt.  There  is  no  debt  an  honourable 
man  is  so  much  bound  to  pay  as  the  debt  he  owes 
to  the  woman  who  has  trusted  him.  Good-bye.  I 
shall  not  see  you  again  before  you  go."  She  held 
out  her  hand.  "You  may  take  your  ring." 

"You  are  turning  me  off?"  he  cried,  clasping 
her  hand  in  both  of  his. 

"I  am  sending  you  back  to  the  woman  who  has 
the  right  to  you.  Pay  your  debt." 

"You  can't  mean  that,  Florence!  You  are  right 
to  be  angry  with  me,  for  I  have  done  you  a  wrong — " 

"Don't  mistake  me,"  she  interrupted,  "I  am  not 
angry  in  the  least.  If  your  relations  with  her  had 
been  of  the  common  sort — well,  I  take  the  world 
as  I  find  it — I  should  not  have  condemned  you  for 
that  which  society  encourages,  fosters,  and  secretly 
applauds  in  men.  But  this  is  quite  another  matter. 
You  once  declared  to  me  that  Madame  Manders  was 
a  good  woman.  I  can  believe  she  was.  If  she  was 
a  good  woman  she  has  a  claim  on  you  that  I  re- 
cognise. I  can  only  repeat  to  you,  'Pay  your 
debt' " 

She  passed  him,  walking  in  the  direction  of  the 
house.  He  followed  beside  her,  speaking  with  plead- 
ing intensity. 

"  Why  should  you  send  me  away  ?  Why  should 
I  do  this  unheard-of  thing?  I  am  in  no  way 
bound!  I  owe  no  debt!  How  do  I  differ  from 
other  men  that  I  should  be  held  accountable  for  a 


MANDERS 

fault  that  others  commit  with  impunity?  Am  I 
worse  or  more  responsible  than  they  ?  Am  I  alone 
to  b«  sacrificed  to  a  moral  scruple — " 

She  turned  towards  him,  stopping  in  the  path, 
her  eyes  flashing  the  indignation  of  her  impassioned 
speech. 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  you!  I  was  not  think- 
ing of  morals !  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  them ! 
I  said  nothing  about  sacrifice  !  There  is  no  sacri- 
fice in  duty !  I  care  nothing  for  your  usages  and 
your  customs,  and  your  contemptible  code  of  worldly 
honour !  I  don't  care  whether  you  are  worse  or 
better  than  other  men!  I  see  you  only  as  a  man 
on  whom  another  woman  has  a  claim  that  I  choose 
to  respect.  It  is  of  that  other  woman  I  am  think- 
ing— selfishly  thinking,  if  you  will !  I  am  thinking 
of  myself  in  her  place.  If  I  had  given  myself  to 
a  man  in  love,  and  I  were  dying  and  my  heart 
called  for  him,  I  should  feel  that  he  was  mine,  and 
that  I  had  a  right  to  summon  him  from  the  world's 
end !  If  I  summoned  him,  I  should  expect  him  to 
come !  And  if  he  were  a  man  worthy  of  a  woman's 
trust  he  would  come!  This  woman  is  calling  for 
you  1  Your  place  is  by  her  side !  Go  to  her ! " 

She  thrust  the  ring  which  she  had  taken  from 
her  finger  into  his  hand  and  went  hurriedly  along 
the  path  to  the  house,  hiding  in  her  own  room  the 
emotion  that  could  find  no  relief  in  tears. 

Blakemore,  stunned  by  the  force  of  her  unex- 
pected outburst,  stood  for  some  minutes  where  she 

B 


MANDERS 

left  him,  staring  blankly  in  the  direction  in  which 
Florence  had  gone  among  the  oaks,  and  then  entered 
the  cottage  and  mechanically  set  about  getting  his 
trunk  in  order  to  send  by  the  afternoon  train. 

He  did  not  hear  the  luncheon  bell,  and.  after  a 
time  Jerry  came  for  him. 

"  Lawd !  Mr  Blakemore,  yo'  ain't  lost  yo'  ears,  is 
yo'?  I  done  ring  de  clapper  out  de  bell  tryin'  to 
make  yo'  hear.  Lunch  is  ready,  an'  dey's  a  fine  mess 
o'  fresh  ketched  shrimps  to  tickle  yo'  taste  comin'  in 
cole  f  um  de  ice.  Bettah  make  has'e ;  Miss  Flaw'nce 
is  powahful  fond  o'  shrimps." 

"  Excuse  me  to  Mrs  Storey,  Uncle  Jerry,  and  tell 
her  I'm  packing  up  for  the  afternoon  train  to  New 
Orleans,  as  I  have  got  to  catch  the  train  for  New 
York  to-night" 

"  Plenty  time  f  er  dat  an'  lunch,  too,  Mr  Blakemore. 
It's  bad  luck  to  travel  on  a  empty  stomach." 

"I'll  get  supper  in  New  Orleans.  Come  for  the 
trunk  in  an  hour,  Uncle  Jerry.  I'll  see  the  ladies 
then." 

"  Yo'  knows  bes',  Mr  Blakemore ;  but  yo'  is  missin* 
a  mighty  fine  mess  o'  shrimps,  I'm  tellin'  yo'  dat  f  er 
yo'  comfort.  Shrimps  don'  come  round  evah  day  to 
be  cotch  this  time  o'  year." 

Jerry  reported  to  Mrs  Storey  just  as  Florence,  as 
composed  as  usual,  came  into  the  dining-room. 

"  Going  to  New  York  I "  exclaimed  Mrs  Storey, 
looking  at  Florence  somewhat  suspiciously,  "Isn't 
he  rather  sudden  about  it?" 

258 


MANDERS 

"  Yes,"  Florence  answered  quietly,  taking  her  place 
at  the  table.  "He  has  just  received  a  letter  that 
makes  it  necessary  for  him  to  start  at  once  for  Paris." 

"  For  Paris  ?  Really  ! "  said  Mrs  Storey,  giving  her 
voice  a  plaintive  inflexion.  "I  was  just  beginning 
to  find  him  endurable.  Who  were  your  letters  from, 
Florence  ? " 

"  One  of  them  was  from  Cousin  Minnie.  I  haven't 
opened  the  others." 

"Well,  for  pity's  sake,  do!  How  can  you  be  so 
lacking  in  curiosity  ? " 

Florence  opened  the  letter,  the  writing  on  the 
envelope  of  which  piqued  her  interest,  because  it 
was  familiar  in  spite  of  her  inability  to  identify  it 
She  glanced  at  the  signature,  lifted  her  eyebrows 
and  read  the  few  lines  with  an  enigmatical  smile  that 
got  no  further  than  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  The 
letter  was  written  from  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel,  New 
York,  and  was  signed  "  John  MendenhalL"  She  thought 
it  terse  enough,  yet  was  conscious  of  a  satisfaction  that 
there  was  nothing  of  a  propitiatory  character  about  it 

"  DEAR  Miss  STOREY, — I  have  been  in  New  York 
for  nearly  a  month,  but  have  only  now  succeeded  in 
getting  your  address.  New  Orleans  is  one  of  the 
American  cities  I  most  desire  to  visit.  Balouis,  I 
am  told,  is  almost  a  suburb  of  that  city.  May  I 
have  the  honour  of  calling  upon  your  parents  and 
you  when  I  come  ? — Most  sincerely, 

"  JOHN  MENDENHALL." 


MANDERS 

Florence  tossed  the  letter  across  the  cable  to 
mother   after    reading    it,    and,    without    comment, 
opened  one  of  the  others. 

Mrs  Storey  made  no  concealment  of  her  pleasure 
that  Mendeuhall  should  have  written. 

"  How  opportune  1 "  she  exclaimed,  without  explain- 
ing with  what  she  associated  the  timeliness.  "  Now 
I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  be  silly,  Flo  1  You  will 
invite  him  down,  of  course.  Don't  act  as  if  a  foolish 
love-quarrel  could  stop  the  motion  of  the  spheres. 
Try  to  discover  in  yourself  an  average  amount  of 
common  sense,  and  send  him  a  favourable  answer. 
I  don't  ask  you  to  be  urgent,  but  as  least  bo  in- 
dulgent. Will  you  ? " 

"  What  would  be  the  object?" 

"  Object !  Why  should  there  be  any  object  ?  If 
you  have  no  other  reason  for  doing  it,  do  it  to  please 
me.  I  have  no  antipathies  to  Mr  MendenhalL" 

"  Nor  have  I.  I  have  no  feeling  toward  him  one 
way  or  another." 

"  So  much  the  more  reason  for  being  civil  to  him. 
Will  you  invite  him  down?  " 

"  I'll  send  him  permission  to  call,  if  you  wish  it." 

"  Permission  1  I  do  wish  you  could  get  a  sensible 
view  of  life  into  that  eccentric  head  of  yours.  Mr 
Mendenhall  is  one  man  picked  out  of  a  thousand,  to 
say  nothing  of  his  prospects.  You  have  been  seeking 
such  a  chance  for  years — " 

"  I  have  been  seeking,  mamma  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  have,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing 
•ft 


MANDERS 

and  now  that  the  chance  has  come  seeking  yon,  to 
talk  of  '  permission '  ID  that  irritating  way.  It  ia  too 
provoking,  Flo ! " 

Thanks  to  Mrs  Storey's  urgency,  an  indulgently- 
worded  permit  was  despatched  that  night ;  so  it  was 
no  extraordinary  coincidence  if,  on  the  day  that 
Blakemore  sailed  out  of  New  York  bay  headed  for 
France,  Mr  John  Mendenhall  (now  in  reality  Lord 
Kentmoor,  Baron  of  Kentmoor)  was  sitting  con- 
tentedly in  the  corner  of  a  smoking-room  in  the 
limited  train  speeding  toward  New  Orleans. 


•61 


CHAPTER   XX 

THOUGH  Mendenhall  had,  soon  after  his  return  to 
England  from  Rome,  succeeded  to  the  baronage  held 
over-long  by  his  invalid  uncle,  he  imagined  that  he 
had  particular  reasons  personal  to  himself  for  wish- 
ing to  keep  the  fact  concealed  during  at  least  a  part 
of  his  American  tour.  He  had  the  delicacy  to  think, 
among  other  things,  that  his  title  would  effectually 
bar  the  way  to  a  reconciliation  with  Florence,  whose 
pride  he  rightly  gauged,  and  he  persuaded  himself 
that  her  friendliness  had  become  an  object  of  increased 
importance  to  him.  Memories  of  her  seemed  to  have 
secreted  themselves  in  every  possible  hiding-place  of 
his  mind  for  the  purpose  of  rising  up  unexpectedly 
to  pommel  his  egoism  with  regrets;  memories  of 
things  of  which  he  had  taken  no  notice  at  the  time 
— her  habit  of  tugging  at  the  top  of  her  glove;  of 
kicking  the  tip  of  her  elegantly-booted  foot  beyond 
her  dress  skirt  at  intervals  when  she  sat  in  animated 
conversation ;  of  drawing  up  the  right  eyebrow  when 
she  was  on  the  point  of  dissenting  from  something 
being  said;  the  faintly  distinguishable  perfume  of 
violets  which  the  air  caught  from  her  handkerchiefs ; 
a  thousand  trifles,  which  more  than  beauty  of  face 

263 


MANDERS 

i 

or  grace   of  mind  charm   a  man    into   unconscious 

bondage  to  woman,  and  allure  him  back  from  the 
illusions  of  freedom.  The  empty  clubs  and  summer 
dulness  of  London  made  him  especially  susceptible 
to  these  insidious  attacks,  and  after  some  futile 
vagabondage  in  Switzerland  he  resolved  to  try  the 
curative  expedient  of  a  trans-Atlantic  voyage.  He 
booked  on  a  Cunarder  as  John  Mendenhall,  and  as 
John  Mendenhall  he  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Waldmeer. 

He  was  quite  prepared  for  the  reception  Mrs 
Storey  extended  to  him,  but  he  was  disconcerted 
by  the  way  in  which  Florence  received  him.  He 
thought  he  knew  how  as  well  as  anyone  to  adapt 
himself  to  the  frigid  courtesy  of  a  young  lady  who 
has  condescended  to  overlook,  without  forgetting,  a 
real  or  fancied  indignity,  and  his  plan  of  procedure 
with  Florence  had  been  so  minutely  and  carefully 
thought  out,  that  he  felt  no  sort  of  uneasiness  in 
the  anticipation  of  his  meeting  with  her.  But 
Florence  had  done  some  planning  on  her  own 
account,  based  on  the  stupidity  of  presenting  a 
chill  reserve  to  the  man  one  has  invited  to  come 
a  thousand  miles  to  visit  one.  She  welcomed 
Mendenhall  with  such  frank  cordiality,  with  so 
much  more  friendliness  than  she  had  ever  before 
shown  him,  even  coming  down  the  brick  walk  to 
meet  him  at  the  gate,  that  he  promptly  fell  into 
confusion,  and  babbled  such  incoherencies  as  made 
him  wonder  what  had  become  of  his  poise.  This 

063 


MANDERS 

liberal  manner  said  to  him  as  plainly  as  if  Florence 
had  expressed  her  conditions  in  words, — 

"You  are  come  as  a  friend  of  the  family,  as  a 
free  guest  in  the  house ;  but  don't  make  the  mistake 
ot  supposing  that  you  will  be  allowed  to  exercise 
any  extraordinary  privileges.  You  are  warned  off." 

In  accepting  the  warning,  however,  Mendenhall 
had  no  intention  of  being  ruled  by  it.  Having  a 
distinct  recollection  of  everything  said  between  them 
in  their  last  conversation,  he  found  much  to  en- 
courage him  now  in  two  things  Florence  had  said 
about  that  mischievous  ring;  first,  the  remark  to 
the  effect  that  she  was  just  on  the  point  of  returning 
it ;  second,  her  defiant  declaration,  "  You  have  made 
it  a  betrothal  ring!"  Without  abating  anything 
of  his  loyalty  to  principle,  he  had  reached  the 
conclusion,  after  arguing  with  himself  all  the  points 
suggested  by  conscience,  that  Blakemore  was  really 
entitled  to  no  more  consideration  than  any  other 
general  aspirant  to  a  reward  which  Florence  was 
still  at  liberty  to  bestow  where  she  would.  A  man 
very  much  in  love  ceases  to  be  able  to  discriminate 
impartially  between  the  respective  properties  of 
mewm,  et  tuum,  and  is  very  apt  to  discover  a  divine 
virtue  in  the  theory  that  everything  is  fair  in  love 
and  in  war.  Mendenhall  overcame  his  scruples  as  to 
the  obligation  a  man  is  under  to  regard  his  friend's 
fiancde  as  a  preserve  upon  which  there  must  be  no 
trespassing,  by  contending  that  an  engagement 
which  has  not  even  been  declared  to  relatives  or 

364 


MANDERS 

intimate  friends  is  no  engagement  at  all,  rising 
hardly  above  the  dignity  of  a  special  flirtation,  and 
equally  liable  to  an  abrupt  and  unregarded  termina- 
tion. If  there  was  no  engagement,  there  could  be 
no  discredit  in  cutting  in  ahead  of  Blakemore,  if 
it  could  be  done  with  no  greater  employment  of 
artifice  than  Dime  out  of  mind  has  been  allowed 
in  the  rivalries  of  love.  Any  lingering  doubt  he 
had  as  to  his  perfect  freedom  to  act  as  self-interest 
dictated  waa  whipped  away  with  the  glance  which 
acquainted  him  of  the  fact  that  Florence  had  put 
oif  Blakemore's  ring.  Perhaps  she  had  not  worn 
it  since  the  day  it  fell  into  the  fountain !  But,  be 
that  as  it  might  be,  its  absence  from  her  finger 
now  permitted  him  to  assume  that  whatever  reason 
she  haa  had  ior  wearing  iti  before  had  ceased  to 
exist.  The  thing  to  be  overcome,  then,  was  not 
Florence's  preference  for  someone  else,  but  her  in- 
difference to  him — for  indifference  only,  he  thought, 
could  bccount  for  the  unreserved  friendliness  of  her 
manner  towards  him,  a  manner  so  opposed  to  the 
attitude  of  mind  which  invites  penitential  extra- 
vagances and  vows  of  reformation,  or  which  even 
admits  of  a  recurrence  to  past  misunderstandings. 

Mendenhall  was  of  the  well-fibred  breed  of  men 
whose  energies  increase  as  difficulties  multiply;  and 
though  he  found  this  indifference  where  he  had 
expected  to  encounter  only  an  obstinate  pique,  he 
quickly  recovered  his  fighting  courage,  and  before 
he  was  seated  with  Mrs  Storey  and  Florence  under 

a65 


MANDERS 

one  of  the  giant  live  oaks,  had  begun  to  felicitate 
himself  that  the  situation  was  precisely  the  one  to 
quicken  most  agreeably  the  spirit  of  enterprise. 

"I  am  afraid,  Mr  Mendenhall,"  Mrs  Storey  said 
after  the  exchange  of  information  touching  their 
respective  adventures  since  the  parting  in  Rome, 
"I  am  afraid  you  will  not  find  it  very  interesting 
with  us  here.  You  see  it  is  too  early  for  the 
beginning  of  the  season  in  New  Orleans,  and  it  is 
late  for  even  the  pretence  at  gaiety  we  have  been 
making  in  Balouis.  I  don't  know  how  we  are 
going  to  keep  you  from  being  bored  to  death." 

"My  interest  is  already  keenly  excited,"  Menden- 
hall answered,  glancing  at  Florence.  "  You  can't 
imagine  what  a  relief  I  find  it  to  get  well  away 
from  cities.  Besides,  I  think  the  place  is  full  of 
charm.  It  is  quite  a  new  type  to  me.  I  was 
struck  with  the  view  along  the  drive  from  the  hotel." 

"  Have  you  pleasant  rooms  at  the  hotel  ?  I'm 
sorry  we  can't  put  you  up  here.  But  we  haven't 
room  to  turn  round  in  in  the  house;  and  the 
cottage — " 

"Mr  Mendenhall  would  hardly  care  to  give  up 
his  independence,  even  if  we  could  take  him  in," 
Florence  suggested. 

"No,"  Mendenhall  said  laughingly,  "I  like  to  be 
where  I  can  break  things  when  the  ancient  Briton 
rises  up  in  me;  and  heredity  is  never  so  rebellious 
in  me  as  when  I  am  imprisoned  in  a  guest-chamber 
of  a  private  house." 

366 


MANDERS 

Florence  objected  to  being  made  the  victim  of 
banter.  "  You  would  do  well  to  follow  the  example 
of  one  of  our  native  savages,  who,  finding  himself 
unfit  for  civilised  restraints,  moved  over  to  that 
island  you  can  see  across  the  bay  yonder,  where  he 
has  everything  to  himself." 

"  A  hermit  ?  1  should  like  to  make  his  acquaint- 
ance. Suppose  we  sail  over  some  morning  ? " 

"  He  is  rather  ill-natured,  they  say,"  Mrs  Storey 
objected.  "  He  doesn't  approve  of  visitors." 

"  So  much  the  more  reason  for  visiting  him ;  he 
is  probably  a  character,"  Mendenhall  said. 

"  I  should  say  he  shows  a  want  of  character. 
Men  who  run  away  from  disagreeable  situations  are 
not  generally  overcharged  with  character,  are  they  ? " 

Mendenhall  was  willing  to  believe  that  Florence 
intended  this  speech  to  reflect  upon  his  own  conduct 
in  a  certain  emergency ;  but  her  smile  was  much 
too  bland  to  hide  a  subtlety,  and  he  perceived  how 
little  use  there  was  to  make  note  of  the  remark  for 
future  consideration. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  they  are  generally  very  poor 
cattle;  though  I  believe  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
virtue  in  getting  quite  alone  with  Nature  now  and 
then,  if  one  has  the  right  sort  of  stuff  in  him.  It 
takes  some  of  the  egotism  out  of  a  man." 

"  Have  you  ever  tried  it  ? "  Mrs  Storey  asked  in 
entire  innocence. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  daresay  the  coarse  was  npt  thorough," 

Mendenhall  laughed. 

267 


MANDERS 

"  Or  the  stuff  may  not  have  been  of  the  right  sort," 
Florence  said,  smiling. 

"  You  are  laughing  at  my  expense,  I  see,"  Mrs 
Storey  said,  rising  and  straightening  out  the  folds 
of  her  dress.  "I  always  take  that  as  a  signal  for 
retreat.  I  am  going  into  the  house  to  see  if  I  think 
it  worth  while  to  ask  you  to  stay  for  dinner.  I 
didn't  remember  about  you  when  the  market  people 
came  this  morning,  and  there  is  no  getting  anything 
after  eleven  o'clock.  Florence,  do  take  Mr  Menden- 
hall  through  the  rose  garden.  I  know  of  nothing 
better  calculated  to  depress  English  egotism  than  a 
Southern  rose  garden.  The  English  are  so  provok- 
ingly  opinionated  about  their  roses." 

Mendenhall  did  stop  to  dinner,  and  made  himself 
better  acquainted  with  Mr  Storey,  upon  whom  he 
had  made  a  call  in  New  Orleans  the  day  before,  and 
by  whom  he  had  been  taken  about  the  levees  and 
through  the  French  market. 

"  There  are  no  airs  about  Mendenhall,"  Mr  Storey 
had  declared  approvingly  to  bis  wife  that  night. 

And  Mendenhall  had  made  a  mental  memorandum 
to  the  effect  that  Mr  Storey  was  not  to  be  regarded 
in  any  sense  as  an  insurmountable  obstacle.  He 
had,  indeed,  found  Florence's  father  an  easy-going, 
amiable  man,  who  did  not  concern  himself  with  many 
ideas  apart  from  business,  and  yet  was  not  so  much 
absorbed  in  commercial  pursuits  as  to  be  careless  cf 
those  genuine  courtesies  of  life,  on  the  observance  of 
which  the  Southern  gentleman  prides  himself. 


MANDERS 

When  the  time  came  to  say  good-night,  Mr  Storey 
proposed  to  walk  to  the  hotel  with  Mendendall,  pro- 
fessing to  be  able  to  enjoy  his  cigar  better  in  a  stroll, 
as,  in  his  opinion,  a  pipe  "  with  enough  stem  to  let 
you  look  down  into  the  glowing  tobacco"  was  the 
true  companion  of  blissful  indolence. 

"  There  is  a  moon,  Florence ;  suppose  we  go  with 
them  ? "  Mrs  Storey  proposed.  "  I  think  I'd  like  to 
stretch  myself." 

But  Florence  pleaded  the  necessity  of  fortifying 
herself  for  the  fatigues  of  a  trip  to  Pass  Christian 
with  Mendenhall,  to  which  she  had  committed  her- 
self for  the  early  morning. 

"You  can  go  anyhow,  if  you  want  to,  my  dear," 
Mr  Storey  said,  addressing  Mrs  Storey  in  a  patronis- 
ingly  affectionate  way. 

"  No,  no,  *'  said  the  lady  ;  "  I  don't  believe  much 
in  moonlight  trios.  Conversation  is  too  difficult  I 

o 

can  content  myself  with  a  run  up  and  down  the  pier." 
After  the  men  had  gone,  Mrs  Storey  came  up  to 
Florence,  and  putting  her  arm  around  her  waist,  quite 
as  if  they  were  girls  together,  urged  her  along, 
saying,— 

"  Come,  we'll  go  down  to  the  end  of  the  pier  and 
sit  till  your  father  returns,  and  have  a  real  con- 
fidential talk  about — a  lot  of  things.  You  are  not 
any  more  ready  for  bed  than  I  am.  But  I  under- 
stand ;  you  did  not  want  to  appear  too  precipitate. 
And  perhaps  it  is  just  as  well.  Men  are  so  easily 
spoiled.  Though  I  don't  think  you  have  any  occasion 

209 


MANDERS 

to  employ  tactics  in  this  case.  The  advantages  are 
obviously  all  with  you.  And  I  must  say  I  was 
charmed  with  you  to-day,  and  really  I  am  grateful 
to  you  for  your  exercise  of  good  sense,  Flo,  grateful 
and  delighted,  dear." 

"  Whatever  in  the  world  are  you  talking  about, 
mamma?"  Florence  interrupted,  laughing.  "What 
has  happened  to  you  ?  You  can't  say  it  is  the  moon, 
for  it  isn't  strong  enough,  and  the  wine  was  ever  so 
long  ago." 

Mrs  Storey  withdrew  her  arm  from  her  daughter's 
waist.  "That  is  one  of  your  malignant  laughs! 
Then  you  are  not  going  to  take  me  into  your  con- 
fidence ? " 

"About  what?" 

"  About  what  ?  As  if  there  was  any  question  about 
what!  You  don't  mean  to  pretend  that  the  affair 
stands  between  you  and  Mr  Mendenhall  as  it  did 
before  I  left  you  alone  with  him  ? " 

"Precisely.  And  it  will  stand  just  there,  if  you 
will  ask  about  it,  when  Mr  Mendenhall's  visit  has 
come  to  an  end." 

"  I  don't  believe  you.  You  have  a  vicious  spirit 
of  torment  in  you,  and  you  delight  in  vexing  me. 
Instead  of  a  sisterly  candour  with  me,  you  have  an 
impish  impudence,  and  I  cannot  even  have  the 
authority  of  a  mother  respected.  Authority,  indeed ! 
A  precious  lot  of  authority  parents  have  over  children 
nowadays !  And  as  for  mothers,  I  can  see  no  use 
for  them  after  they  have  performed  the  functions  of 

270 


MANDERS 

maternity !  Advisers !  counsellors  !  guides  !  friends  ! 
Humph!  those  words  are  no  longer  even  figures  of 
speech  in  the  filial  vocabulary  as  applied  to  mothers ; 
<md  the  time  probably  is  not  far  distant — " 

"You  are  wasting  energy,  mamma,"  interrupted 
Florence,  in  her  turn  putting  an  arm  about  Mrs 
Storey,  at  the  same  time  giving  a  little  steadying 
shake  with  her  thumb  and  finger  to  Mrs  Storey's  un- 
duly elevated  chin.  "  You  are  quite  on  the  wrong  tack. 
If  you  thought  you  detected  in  me  to-day  a  sign  of 
happy  satisfaction,  it  was  not  because  I  had  come  to 
an  understanding  with  Mr  Mendenhall,  but  because 
I  am  getting  to  an  understanding  with  myself.  I 
am  working  out  a  little  problem  of  personal  arith- 
metic, and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  when  I  get  the 
answer.  For  the  present  I  can  only  say  that  it  is  not 
a  sum  in  church  addition,  by  which  one  plus  one 
equals  one.  Now,  let's  talk  about  something  else." 

"Blakemore,  for  example."  Mrs  Storey  exploded 
the  name  in  much  the  same  way  that  one  puffs  out 
an  obstinate  candle. 

"Not  of  men  at  all,  but  of  missiona" 

"  Bah ! "  exclaimed  Mrs  Storey,  "  men  are  women's 
only  missions,  no  matter  what  names  you  use  to 
designate  them.  You  have  woman's  this  associations, 
woman's  that  societies,  and  woman's  clubs  coming  up, 
religious,  social  and  political ;  but  at  one  end  of  them 
all  is  the  kitchen,  and  at  the  other  end  is  the  drawing- 
room,  and  man  is  on  a  pedestal  mid-way  between 

the  two.     I  get  very  tired  hearing  about  woman's 

271 


MANDERS 

mission,  and  finding  that  it  always  resolves  itself 
into  a  struggle  to  annihilate  everything  that  is  not 
of  the  masculine  gender.  You  will  find  that  a  female 
reformer  is  generally  the  result  of  Nature's  indecision 
whether  to  make  a  man  or  a  woman,  and  compromis- 
ing in  a  neuter,  mentally  speaking,  of  course." 

"  You  have  given  me  the  key  to  the  riddle,  mamma, 
and  helped  me  tremendously.  The  way  is  clear  before 
me.  I  know  my  strength  henceforth.  I  am  one  of 
those  mental  neuters." 

"  Well,  don't  try  to  rob  me  of  actual  grand-children, 
if  you  do  make  an  imbecile  of  yourself  in  other 
directions.  And  if  you  were  as  wise  as  you  pretend 
to  be,  you  would  let  me  pick  out  the  father.  I  find 
it  chilly  out  here  without  a  wrap." 

"  Shall  I  get  you  one  ? " 

"No;  you  are  not  interesting  enough  to  make  it 
worth  while.  I'm  gomg  in." 

"  What  do  you  think  Mendenhall  asked  me  to- 
night ? "  Mr  Storey  asked  of  Mrs  Storey  when  they 
were  alone. 

"  I  suppose  he  asked  you  if  he  could  have  Florence," 
Mrs  Storey  replied  complacently. 

"  You  have  marvellous  intuitions,  Leshy !     He  did." 

"  And  what  did  you  say  to  him  ? " 

"I  told  him,  of  course,  that  that  was  a  question 
with  which  I  had  nothing  whatever  to  do,  and  I 
referred  him  to  Florence." 

"Well?" 

"  Then  he  wanted  to  know  if  I  gave  him  leave  to 
272 


MANDERS 

pay  his  addresses  to  Florence.  I'm  glad  it  was  dark 
enough  to  hide  a  grin,  Leshy,  for  I'm  sure  one  spread 
itself  all  over  my  face.  But  I  gave  him  leave  just 
the  same !  Imagine  one  of  our  boys  asking  leave  to 
court  a  girl !  Much  they  or  the  girls  either  care  what 
the  old  man  thinks,  eh,  Leshy?  But  I  rather  like 
Mendenhall.  He  is  clean-cut  and  straightforward. 
He  is  about  as  nice  as  Walter,  I  should  reckon,  though 
they're  not  much  alike  ;  but  Walter  has  one  enormous 
advantage  in  my  eyes,  he  lives  on  the  right  side  of 
the  ocean.  I  must  send  word  to  Walter  that  there  is 
a  rival  in  the  field." 

"  You  must  do  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"Not  warn  him  that  I  have  given  another  man 
permission — " 

"Certainly  not!  Don't  meddle  in  what  doesn't 
concern  you.  They  are  all  quite  capable  of  taking 
care  of  themselves.  Besides,  everything  will  be  settled 
before  you  could  get  word  to  Blakemore  if  you  should 
be  ninny  enough  to  write." 

"You  think  so?"  Mr  Storey  asked,  a  troubled 
look  coming  into  his  face. 

"  Why,  yes.  I  think  this  excursion  to  Pass 
Christian  in  the  morning  quite  favourable  to  a 
definite  settlement." 

Mr  Storey  gave  a  rather  deep-drawn  sigh  and 
stroked  his  bald  spot  reflectively. 

"It  seems  so  plaguey  treacherous.  But  I  sup- 
pose it  is  all  right.  Women  seem  to  have  rules 
of  their  own  for  the  management  of  this  sort  of 

8 


MANDERS 

affair.  If  they  were  both  here,  though,  I'd  bet  on 
Walter." 

"  And,  if  I  know  orange  blossoms  when  I  see  them, 
you  would  lose." 

"Maybe,"  Mr  Storey  said  musingly,  and  fondling 
the  top  of  his  head  anew.  "I  remember  my  father 
saying  to  me  one  time  when  we  were  at  the  races  in 
Mobile,  '  If  you  ever  have  anything  to  do  with  race- 
courses, Henry,  make  it  a  rule  never  to  bet  on  fillies ; 
they  are  not  to  be  depended  on.' " 

"  I  must  confess  that  I  don't  see  the  application  of 
that  remark  to  our  present  subject  of  conversation." 

"  There  isn't  any,  my  dear ;  none  whatever.  I  was 
only  thinking  that  there  is  a  right  smart  resemblance 
between  girls  and  fillies.  Don't  you  think  so  ? " 

"I  think  you  are  odious.  Good-night,"  and  Mrs 
Storey  turned  the  angle  of  her  cheek  to  receive 
the  tributory  kiss  which  she  nightly  exacted  of 
Mr  Storey  as  an  evidence  of  continued  conjugal 
submission. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IP  the  day  at  Pass  Christian  offered  favourable 
opportunities,  Mendenhall  was  not  injudicious  enough 
to  take  advantage  of  them.  His  object  seemed  to 
be  to  persuade  Florence  of  the  entire  disinterested- 
ness of  his  motives  in  consenting  to  appropriate  to 
himself  so  large  a  share  of  her  time  and  society. 
He  exerted  himself  to  be  agreeable  without  over- 
stepping the  bounds  of  reserve  she  defined  for  him, 
and  was  so  careful  to  avoid  anything  like  a  reference 
to  past  incidents  of  a  personal  nature  that  Florence 
began  to  doubt,  as  the  day  wore  along,  if  she  had 
any  good  reason  for  the  guards  she  had  posted  at 
every  avenue  of  conversational  approach.  Such  is 
the  perversity  of  human  nature,  the  more  steadily 
Mendenhall  bore  away  from  the  one  subject  she  had 
determined  should  not  be  discussed  between  them, 
the  more  desirous  Florence  became  that  he  should 
venture  toward  it.  She  even  felt  a  sense  of  defeat 
and  humiliation  that  evening  when  Mrs  Storey,  her 
eyes  eager  and  her  smile  expectant,  came  to  her 
with  a  meaningful  "  Well  ? "  to  which  she  had  to 
respond  with  cheery  mendacity,  "I  haven't  an  idea 
what  you  mean." 

•75 


"I  mean  is  it  settled?" 

"  Don't  be  a  goose,  mamma.  I  have  told  you  there 
is  nothing  to  settle." 

There  were  many  occasions  in  the  next  half-dozen 
days  perfectly  adapted  to  emotional  lapses,  of  which 
Mendenhall  showed  an  irritating  unconsciousness. 
There  were  aimless  drif  tings  through  the  pine  woods, 
over  the  deep  carpet  of  fallen  needles ;  drives  along 
the  shadowy  palm-dressed  road  that  led  to  the  old 
mill  on  the  river,  a  spot  Arcadian  in  its  invitations 
to  romance;  idlings  in  a  boat  anchored  over  the 
channel,  where  Florence,  under  a  sunshade,  read 
aloud  as  Mendenhall  patiently  fished,  with  no  more 
sportsmanlike  reward  than  the  hooking  of  catfish 
not  gamey  enough  to  struggle  against  captivity,  or 
lashing  "  stingerees "  that  were  dangerous  to  get 
off  the  line;  strolls  at  sundown  along  the  beach, 
grass-grown  to  the  water's  edge;  opportunities  so 
neglected  by  Mendenhall  that  Florence  came  to  have 
an  irritable  resentment  of  that  perpetual  mark  of 
interrogation  in  Mrs  Storey's  eyes.  Resolved  as  she 
was  what  to  say  should  Mendenhall  presume  to  get 
sentimental,  she  was  becoming  impatient  for  the 
chance  to  say  it,  and  there  were  times  when  she 
was  almost  irresistibly  impelled  to  begin  the  attack 
herself. 

"  His  complacency  is  coming  to  be  positively 
insulting,"  she  thought.  "I  shall  die  of  chagrin  if 
he  doesn't  get  out  of  it." 

And  it  happened    that   Mendenhall    chose    what 


MANDERS 

might  be  thought  the  least  suitable,  the  least  pro- 
pitious of  all  possible  times,  were  it  not  that  love 
has  no  eyes  for  the  incongruous  and  no  sense  of 
untimeliness. 

It  was  the  outcome  of  an  interrupted  sail. 

Re'ne',  whose  repinings  over  the  wanton  abandon- 
ment of  work  on  his  picture  Florence  had  soothed 
by  various  friendly  employments,  had  rigged  his 
cumbersome  fishing-boat  into  quite  a  respectable 
sailing  craft  for  their  benefit,  and  with  its  aid  Florence 
and  Mendenhall  had  made  explorations  of  remote 
points  of  the  bay.  Mendenhall  was  an  excellent 
sailor,  and  finding  the  boat  a  good  and  tractable 
traveller,  had  proposed  one  morning  that  they 
provision  themselves  for  the  day  and  put  out  into 
the  Gulf  and  "  shake  off  the  land  for  a  while."  Mrs 
Storey  had  accepted  MendenhalPs  invitation  to  go 
with  them,  and  entered  into  the  enterprise  with  such 
vivacity  of  spirit  that  even  Florence  was  surprised 
when,  at  the  last  moment,  Mrs  Storey  suddenly  and 
dramatically  declared, — 

"There!  it  is  the  most  provoking  thing  in  the 
world,  but  do  you  know,  Flo,  I  forgot  all  about 
having  promised  that  wretched  father  of  yours 
to  meet  him  in  New  Orleans  this  afternoon !  I've 
got  to  sign  something  or  other,  heaven  knows  what ! 
I  can't  go  with  you,  but  don't  give  up  your  sail  Go 
and  have  a  good  time.  It  is  a  splendid  day  for  it. 
I  envy  you !  I  was  pining  for  a  lungful  of  open  sea 
air.  Take  care  not  to  get  drowned,  Mr  Menuenhall. 

377 


MANDERS 

I  daresay  it  would  be  highly  poetic,  but  don't  do 
it.  You  know  we  have  a  bezique  party  for  to- 
morrow night." 

They  put  out  under  a  fine  breeze  blown  fragrant 
from  the  pine  woods  and  made  straight  for  the  open 
sea,  concerning  themselves  not  at  all  with  that  patch 
of  umber  which  spotted  the  eastern  horizon  as  the 
cloud  which  Gehazi  discovered  after  repeated  clamber- 
ings  to  the  mountain  top. 

Storms,  like  other  forces  in  the  South,  gather  with 
leisurely  deliberation  and  generally  with  apparent 
irresolution,  the  clouds  shifting  and  clearing,  and 
remassing  and  dispersing,  in  such  a  purposeless 
fashion,  that  often  befooled  humanity  gets  into  the 
way  of  despising  the  signs  of  the  heavens  and  goes 
its  way  reckless  of  consequences.  Florence,  better 
acquainted  than  Mendenhall  with  the  caprices  of  her 
native  skies,  saw  nothing  to  excite  her  anxiety  in 
the  aspect  that  Mendenhall  thought  ominous,  when, 
considerably  after  noon,  they  found  themselves  in 
the  open  waters,  land  indistinguishable,  and  giant 
spectres  of  white,  and  yellow,  and  purple,  and  black, 
making  a  majestic  array  against  the  sun.  Far 
away,  too,  the  white -caps  were  beginning  to  sport. 

"  What  if  we  do  get  caught  ? "  Florence  cried 
with  enthusiasm.  "  I  could  get  under  the  tarpaulin, 
and  you  are  not  made  of  sugar  or  salt !  These 
storms  never  amount  to  anything  at  this  time  of 
year.  You  would  only  have  to  keep  the  boat  before 
th«  wind.  It  would  be  grand  sport.  The  only  fear 

278 


MANDERS 

is  that  these  clouds  are  making  fun  of  us  and  don't 
intend  to  make  things  lively  at  all." 

"  Well,  if  we  don't  have  a  '  good  one,'  you  have 
got  a  special  system  of  meteorology  in  this  country," 
said  Mendenhall.  "  My  opinion  is  that  we  ought  to 
make  for  shore  with  airspeed." 

"  Are  you  afraid  ? "  Florence  laughed. 

"Yes,  I'm  afraid.  I  am  always  afraid  of  a  tub 
like  this  when  there  is  a  woman  on  board  with  that 
sort  of  thing  coming  up." 

**  I  thought  Englishmen  were  afraid  of  nothing." 

"  So  they  are ;  very  much  afraid  of  it." 

"  You  think  I  would  cut  up  badly — have  hysterics, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  I  think  you  would  act  like  a  woman." 

"Try  me." 

"  I  have  a  mind  to,"  Mendenhall  said,  smiling,  and 
letting  the  sail  belly  out  a  little  more  to  the  stiffening 
breeze. 

He  kept  the  boat  head-on  for  the  white-caps  that 
were  beginning  to  break  a  few  boat-lengths  beyond 
them,  and  as  the  little  craft  careened  as  if  to  take  in 
sea,  Florence  splashed  her  hand  into  the  water  with 
the  delight  of  a  child,  and  laughed  with  unrestrained 
pleasure  when  the  boat  dashed  into  the  rising  billows 
and  sent  the  salt  spray  flying  over  them. 

But  a  reinforcement  of  clouds  had  come  up  from 
the  west  and  south-west,  shutting  out  the  sun,  and 
Mendenhall  presently  realised  that  there  was  no  time 
for  larking.  The  shore  was  a  long  way  off,  and  the 

«79 


MANDERS 

storm,  having  done  with  trifling,  was  preparing  to 
be  very  much  in  earnest.  He  gradually  veered  the 
boat  round,  until,  before  Florence  was  aware  of  any 
change  of  direction,  they  were  bowling  along  before 
a  steadily-increasing  blow,  that  threatened  to  make 
it  necessary  to  take  in  the  sail  if  they  were  to  escape 
foundering  among  waves  that  were  becoming  turbu- 
lent under  conflicting  winds. 

"  Wasn't  it  worth  while  ? "  Florence  cried  out 
jubilantly,  just  at  the  moment  when  Mendenhall 
thought  the  sail  was  getting  away  from  him  and 
was  making  prodigious  efforts  to  recover  control. 

"  Decidedly  worth  while,"  he  answered,  giving  the 
stay-rope  an  extra  hitch  around  the  pin.  "  But  you 
must  be  jolly  well  wet." 

"It  is  not  worth  mentioning.  Salt  water  never 
hurts  one.  It's  a  tonic." 

"Are  you  chilly?" 

"  No ;  it  is  delicious.    Do  you  mind  t  * 

"  I  am  just  beginning  to  enjoy  it." 

The  rain  held  off  considerately  until  Mendenhall 
saw  land  a  short  run  ahead,  when  there  came  a 
scattering  discharge  of  big  drops. 

"We  are  getting  to  shore.  We  may  find  shelter 
before  the  rain  falls.  We  must  have  made  a  lively 
run  of  it.  I  didn't  think  we  were  so  near." 

Florence  looked  over  her  shoulder  and  took  their 
bearings. 

"  That  isn't  the  shore,"  she  said,  laughing.     "  That 

is  the  hermit's  island.     We   won't  find   any   shelter 

280 


MANDERS 

there,  I  can  tell  you.  The  shore  is  a  mile  and  a  half 
beyond  that" 

"  We'll  run  in  there  until  the  storm  passes  any 
way,"  said  Hendenhall,  heading  for  a  break  in  the  tree 
line  that  seemed  to  offer  a  landing  point. 

The  bow  of  the  boat  ground  into  the  sand  and 
gravel  and  came  to  a  stop  with  a  lurch  several  feet 
from  the  shore  line.  Mendenhall  leaped  into  the 
water  and  made  the  painter  fast  to  the  trunk  of  a 
sapling,  and  then  waded  back  for  the  tarpaulin,  which 
he  took  up,  saying  to  Florence, — 

"  Wait  a  minute  ;  I'll  have  to  carry  you." 

He  carried  the  tarpaulin  to  the  foot  of  a  huge  elm, 
whose  wide-spreading  and  compact  branches  promised 
shelter,  and  hurried  back  for  Florence,  as  the  rain  was 
falling  heavily  now. 

"  Don't  come  for  me,"  she  cried,  standing  up  in  the 
rocking  boat  with  her  skirts  grasped  in  both  hands. 
"  It  isn't  deep.  I've  nothing  to  spoil  And  I  should 
like  wading.  Do  look  the  other  way." 

But-  he  came  stubbornly  on. 

"  I  am  going  to  carry  you,"  he  said,  and  as  he  took 
her  in  his  arms,  lifting  her  to  his  shoulders,  she 
wondered  why  she  had  never  noticed  that  he  was  a 
man  built  for  uncommon  strength.  She  felt  very 
like  a  child  in  his  assured  grasp.  He  did  not  put 
her  down  until  they  were  under  the  tree. 

"There!"  he  said  with  satisfaction.  "Sit  down; 
the  ground  is  dry  yet ;  and  I'll  fix  this  tarpaulin  over 

you.     Now,"  he  said,  when  he  had  ai-ranged  a  tent- 

atfi 


MANDERS 

like  protection  for  her,  "  if  it  rains  cats  and  dogs  you 
won't  suffer." 

"There  is  plenty  of  room  for  you,"  she  said. 
"  Aren't  you  going  to  come  under  ? " 

"  Rather,"  he  said,  taking  a  seat  beside  her.  "  Do 
you  mind  my  smoking?"  feeling  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket  for  a  cigar. 

"  No ;  if  you  have  a  cigarette  I'll  join  you." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  smoked ! " 

"  I  don't ;  but  I  can — and  this  is  one  of  the  occa- 
sions when  I'd  like  to." 

He  offered  her  his  case,  and,  lighting  a  match,  held  it 
to  her. 

"  Light  your  cigar  first ;  I'll  take  a  light  from  that ; 
it  is  more  sociable." 

"  If  we  had  those  things  out  of  the  locker  now,"  he 
said  presently,  "  we  might  have  a  picnic.  Shall  I  get 
them  ? " 

"  Wait  till  the  rain  stops,  i  suppose  you  haven't  a 
dry  thread  on  you  as  it  is.  You  must  be  cold." 

"Not  in  the  least.  This  isn't  my  first  wetting. 
And,  as  you  say,  one  can  stand  a  lot  of  salt  water." 

"I  suppose  this  sort  of  thing  would  scandalise 
all  the  women  of  your  London  set  if  they  knew 
about  it." 

"  I  don't  know.     Why  ?  " 

"  You  English  are  so  tediously  conventional  and  so 
stupidly  proper  !  Your  bible  is  a  book  of  etiquette — 
which,  by  the  way,  is  like  your  constitution,  un- 
written— and  you  have  compressed  the  ten  command- 

282 


MANDERS 

raents  into  two,  'Thou  shalt  not  be  natural;'  and 
'  Thou  shalt  have  no  other  God  but  Form.' " 

"  But  we  are  beginning  to  make  allowances  for 
Americans,"  he  said,  smiling  impudently,  as  he  looked 
at  her  through  his  cigar  smoke. 

"  You  mean  we  are  beginning  to  educate  you." 

Mendenhall  laughed. 

"  No  doubt  that  is  the  Yankee  way  of  looking  at  it. 
Children  are  always  sending  their  grandparents  to 
school." 

A  crash  of  thunder,  followed  by  a  torrential  down- 
pour, to  which  the  elm  offered  no  resistance,  made 
them  huddle  together  and  draw  the  folds  of  the 
tarpaulin  closer  about  them.  They  could  hear 
through  the  roar  of  the  storm  the  beat  of  heavy 
breakers,  and  knew  that  the  tempest  had  reached 
the  height  of  its  violence,  and  must  soon  subside. 
Within  twenty  minutes  the  rain  had  stopped,  though 
the  drops  from  the  leaves  were  still  falling  on  their 
canvas  roof  in  lively  tattoo.  The  wind  had  spent 
its  force,  too,  and  the  waves  were  tossing  only  with 
the  energy  of  their  own  momentum.  Mendenhall 
pushed  aside  one  end  of  the  tarpaulin,  and  got  upon 
his  feet. 

"  I'll  look  after  the  boat.  A  little  of  that  wine  and 
a  biscuit  or  two  will  do  us  no  harm  just  now,  I  think. 
Hello ! "  he  exclaimed  a  moment  later,  "  where  ia  the 
boat?  It's  gone!" 

Through  the  breaking  clouds  the  sun  shone  brightly 
on  the  bay,  illuminating  it  to  the  horizon.  Several 


MANDERS 

hundred  yards  away,  the  boat  was  drifting  with  the 
waves  and  tide,  flapping  its  loose  sail  in  the  breeze, 
as  if  waving  them  a  mocking  good-bye. 

Florence  came  to  his  side  and  looked  as  he  pointed. 

"  There  it  goes ! "  he  said  dismally. 

"What  a  joke  on  you!"  she  laughed  "That 
shows  how  securely  you  can  tie  up  a  boat." 

"  I  tied  it  securely  enough,  you  see,"  pointing  to  a 
coil  of  the  painter  about  the  sapling.  "  The  confounded 
rope  was  rotten.  What  are  we  to  do  ?  How  are  we 
going  to  get  across  the  bay  ? " 

"  How  woebegone  you  look  !  One  would  think 
you  had  a  mind  to  cry  about  it !  I  think  it  is  a  jolly 
lark !  It  is  like  being  shipwrecked  on  a  desert  island. 
We  can  pretend  we  are  the  Swiss  Family  Robinson. 
What  are  you  so  solemn  about  ?  " 

"  You  don't  seem  to  see  that  there  is  a  solemn  side 
to  this,"  he  said  earnestly.  "  In  the  first  place,  as  the 
tide  is  coming  in,  the  boat  will  drift  to  shore  soon  or 
late,  and  they'll  think  that  we  have  been  drowned." 

"Well,  that  won't  drown  us,  will  it?" 

"  But  what  about  your  mother  and  your  father  ? " 

"How  painfully  serious  you  are?  As  the  storm 
has  ceased,  the  boat  will  drift  in  right  side  up,  so  that 
the  stupidest  fisher-boy  will  know  we  haven't  been 
capsized.  They  will  naturally  conclude  that  we  were 
out  of  the  boat  when  it  got  away  from  us.  A  little 
common  sense  will  teach  them  that  we  are  safe  on 
dry  land,  and  they  will  probably  think  of  looking  for 
us  in  the  right  place," 


MANDERS 

"  But  the  boat  may  go  miles  out  of  way,  and  not  be 
picked  up  before  morning  1 " 

"  So  much  the  merrier,"  said  Florence. 

Mendenhall  looked  gravely  into  her  face  as  he  said 
slowly, — 

"  Would  you  mind  being  left  on  the  island  alone  for 
a  few  hours  ? " 

"  Afraid  ?     No ;  what  should  I  be  afraid  of  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  am  going  to  swim  across." 

"  Swim  across !  Why  it  is  a  mile  and  a  half !  You 
would  drown  before  you  got  half-way." 

"  That  would  be  better  than  for  me  to  stop  here  all 
night." 

"  Don't  be  silly,"  said  Florence,  taking  his  meaning, 
and  changing  her  manner.  "You  haven't  any  need 
to  do  the  heroic,  though  I  compliment  your  readiness. 
All  we  have  to  do  is  to  walk  to  the  other  end  of  the 
island  and  borrow  a  boat  from  the  hermit — or  buy  it 
if  he  won't  lend  it." 

Mendenhall  thrust  his  hands  into  his  jacket  pockets 
and  laughed,  rather  a  foolish  laugh,  like  that  of  a  boy 
whose  shrewdness  has  been  tricked  by  his  schoolfellows. 

"I  had  forgotten  the  hermit,"  he  said.  "You 
were  laughing  at  me.  Isn't  it  strange  how  easily 
a  man  can  make  an  ass  of  himself?  I'm  rather 
given  to  that  sort  of  thing;  it  has  got  to  be  a 
second  habit  with  me.  Well,  I'll  go  and  hunt  the 
hermit.  There  is  no  good  of  your  going.  You 
stop  here.  You  might  as  well  keep  your  feet  dry. 
I'll  pull  the  boat  round  here  for  you." 

185 


MANDERS 

There  are  conditions  precedent  to  pulling  a  boat 
as  there  are  to  cooking  a  hare,  as  Mendenhall 
admitted  when  he  found  no  hermit  in  the  house 
and  no  boat  in  the  slip  provided  for  it.  Half  sub- 
merged in  the  sand  and  water  was  the  rotting  shell 
of  a  skiff,  which  yielded  itself  in  pieces  as  Menden- 
hall tugged  at  it,  but  this  was  the  only  thing  in  the 
way  of  water-craft  that  rewarded  his  search. 

"  We  are  monarchs  of  all  we  survey,"  he  declaimed 
as  he  rejoined  Florence,  "  and  our  right  there  is  none 
to  dispute,  for  the  hermit  has  gone  and  taken  his 
boat  with  him." 

"  He  couldn't  very  well  go  without  it.  i  suppose 
there  is  nothing  for  us  but  to  wait  his  return.  Is 
his  house  open?" 

"Yes;  but  I  don't  think  you  would  care  to  go 
inside." 

"  Probably  not,  but  we  could  fetch  out  a  chair  or 
something  to  sit  on  that  is  dry.  It  is  clearing  off 
beautifully.  Come  along;  we  sha'n't  find  it  so 
difficult  to  endure  our  captivity." 

As  they  pushed  along  through  the  wet  under- 
brush and  the  tangles  of  rank  grass,  Mendenhall, 
while  talking  animatedly  enough  with  Florence,  was 
taking  counsel  of  himself  in  widely  different  direc- 
tions of  thought.  What  surprised  him  was  that 
this  inner  talk  should  take  the  character  of  a 
debate  in  which  pros  and  cons  were  argued  with 
calm  force  on  the  one  side,  and  a  reckless  fervidity 
on  the  other.  The  surprise  was  due  to  the  fact 

286 


MANDERS 

that  he  seemed  to  be  making  the  acquaintance  of  a 
new  personality  come  up  from  the  domain  of  his 
sub-conscious  self.  He  looked  upon  it  with  the 
curiosity  that  he  would  have  given  to  the  casual 
inspection  of  any  material  lusua  naturoB  for  the 
first  time  brought  before  his  eyes.  But  as  the  sun 
sank  below  the  forest  horizon,  with  no  sign  of  the 
homing  hermit,  Mendenhall  awoke  to  the  con- 
sciousness that  the  arguments  were  becoming)  more 
and  more  confused,  and  the  new  personality  more 
and  more  distinct  and  interesting. 

"Suppose  the  hermit  shouldn't  come  back  to- 
night ? "  he  asked  suddenly. 

"That  hadn't  occurred  to  me,"  Florence  replied, 
a  tinge  of  anxiety  for  the  time  troubling  her  fancy. 
"That  would  be  dreadful!  And  do  you  know  it  is 
not  at  all  improbable,  for  I've  heard  that  he  some- 
times works  all  night  in  the  oyster  beds!" 

"  If  he  hasn't  come  by  moonrise  I  shall  make  for 
the  shore,"  said  Mendenhall,  with  as  much  emphasis 
as  if  he  were  combating  opposition.  The  prospect 
alarmed  her. 

"  You  couldn't  do  that.     The  distance  is  too  great." 

"  Not  at  all.     I  can  do  it  easily  enough." 

"  But  there  is  really  no  necessity  for  you  to  take 
the  risk.  If  worst  come  to  the  worst,  we  could  wait 
here  until  morning." 

The  new  personality  concurred  in  the  opinion. 
But  Mendenhall  answered, — 

"Yes,  if  we  had  only  ourselves  and  your  parents 
287 


MANDERS 

to  deal  with.     Unfortunately,  there  is  a  community 
of  gossips  to  consider." 

"Well,  what  could  they  say?*' 

"What  could  they  not  say?  They  would  have 
the  right  to  say  what  they  pleased.  And  there 
would  be  only  one  way  to  stop  their  tongues." 

"Yes?" 

"  You  would  have  to  marry  me.  Agree  to  become 
my  wife,  and — " 

He  had  reached  out  his  arms  to  take  her,  but  she 
sprang  aside  with  such  a  merry  burst  of  laughter 
that  he  felt  a  momentary  anger.  He  was  not  in 
a  frame  of  mind  to  be  mocked. 

"  And  do  you  think,"  she  asked,  enjoying  his  vexa- 
tion, "that  I  would  agree  to  marry  a  man  to  save 
appearances  ?  Give  myself  away  because,  otherwise, 
a  lot  of  people,  for  whom  I  don't  care  a  snap  of  my 
fingers,  might  clack  their  scandalous  tongues  ?  No, 
I  thank  you !  You  needn't  fall  into  any  notions  of 
knight-errantry  on  my  account,  my  dear  Mr  Menden- 
hall.  As  long  as  I  know  myself  worthy  of  peoples' 
respect  it  doesn't  make  a  particle  of  difference  to  me 
into  what  errors  of  judgment  they  may  tumble.  I 
care  very  little  what  people  think.  It  isn't  worth 
while." 

"If  you  think  that  way,  there  is  all  the  more 
reason  why  I  should  take  care  to  protect  you  against 
your  own  indifference." 

"You  have  been  reading  Don  Quixote  without 
understanding  it,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him. 

288 


MANDERS 

Mendenhali  said  no  more  on  the  subject,  but  when 
the  moon  had  pencilled  off  his  course  shoreward 
across  the  now  gently  undulating  waters  of  the  bay, 
he  threw  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat  and  began  un- 
lacing hie  boots. 

"  Are  you  really  going  to  do  it  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Of  course  I  am,"  he  answered. 

"  Luckily  I  am  not  heavily  dressed,"  she  said. 

4<  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  with  you." 

The  idea  was  refreshingly  comical  to  him.  It  put 
him  in  high  humour.  His  spleen  went  out  in  a  guffaw. 

"  So  you  are  mermaid,  then,  among  other  things ! 
Perhaps  you  are  Undine  herself !  That  explains  your 
oddity  !  A  mile  and  a  half  of  water  is  a  mere  prom- 
enade to  you.  Or  do  you  count  on  riding  a  dolphin  ? 
They  say  they  are  slippery,  sharp-spined  beasts — how 
do  you  find  them  ?  " 

"  I  am  quite  at  home  in  the  water,  and  I  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  I  could  swim  as  well  and  as  far  as  you 
can.  But  I  don't  intend  to  swim,  and  I  haven't  got 
a  dolphin ;  but  if  you  go  I  am  going  with  you — we 
are  going  to  end  our  adventure  together." 

"  How  are  you  to  manage  it  ?  Is  your  parasol  a 
fairy  wand  ? "  Mendenhali  was  pleased  with  the  tone 
of  sarcasm  he  got  into  the  speech. 

Florence  was  complacently  matter-of-fact. 

"  There  is  a  square  piece  of  timbor  by  the  side  of 
the  house.  It  is  big  enough  to  support  us  in  the 
water  as  we  swim,  or  to  rest  us  when  we  are  tired. 

T 


MANDERS 

You  are  to  do  up  the  things  we  don't  wear  in  your 
coat,  and  tie  the  bundle  on  to  the  log.  If  necessary, 
the  log  would  hold  me  too." 

"  Ridiculous  ! "  exclaimed  Mendenhall,  finding  her 
serious.  "  The  thing  is  not  to  be  thought  of." 

"  It  has  been  thought  of,  and  that  is  what  we  shall 
do — unless  we  stay  on  the  island." 

Mendenhall  protested,  reasoned  and  ridiculed  in 
vain;  and  from  having  regarded  the  scheme  as  an 
alternative,  Florence  came  to  urge  it  as  a  positive 
necessity,  with  the  final  result  that  Meudenhall  got 
the  timber  down  into  the  water  while  she  was  getting 
herself  in  readiness  for  the  exploit. 

When  everything  was  in  readiness  and  Florence 
was  on  the  point  of  wading  into  the  shallows, 
Mendenhall  caught  her  by  the  hand. 

"Stop!  It  is  a  foolish  and  dangerous  undertak- 
ing. You  were  right  in  the  first  place.  We'll  wait 
here  until  morning." 

"  I  like  danger,  and  I  like  folly,"  Florence  an- 
swered. "  I'm  in  the  vein,  and  I'm  going.  You  can 
come  or  stay  as  you  please."  She  broke  from  him, 
plunging  into  the  water  and  giving  the  log  a  shove 
as  she  did  so. 

Mendenhall  followed.  He  admired  her  pluck.  Men 
who  are  themselves  brave  admire  courageous  women, 
and  he  wished,  now  that  they  were  really  launched 
into  the  adventure,  that  the  sea  were  a  little  rougher, 
the  element  of  danger  a  little  greater ;  he  thought  he 
should  like  to  see  her  battle. 

290 


MANDERS 

"  Are  you  cold  ? "  he  asked,  after  they  had  been 
swimming  some  time. 

"  It  was  chilly  at  first ;  but  I'm  warm  now." 

"  It  will  take  us  about  an  hour.  Are  you  good  for 
it?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  think  so.     It's  jolly." 

"  You  swim  well." 

"  It  is  my  chief  accomplishment." 

"  One  of  them.  You  have  many  chief  accomplish- 
ments." 

"  Most  of  them  tabooed." 

"  Not  by  the  elect.    Shall  we  rest  ? " 

"  If  you  are  tired."  She  climbed  half-way  on  to 
the  log,  and  he  swam  to  the  opposite  side,  holding  on 
by  his  left  arm. 

"  Florence." 

"Yes?" 

"  You  know  that  I  love  you." 

"  Shall  we  swim  on  ?  " 

She  slipped  back  into  the  water.  He  had  thought 
her  singularly  beautiful  as  she  sat  in  the  clear  moon- 
light, the  wet  garments  that  clung  about  her  glisten- 
ing with  the  movements  of  her  body,  and  her  action 
disappointed  him. 

"  Won't  you  listen  to  me  ?  You  are  not  indifferent 
to  me,  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  so." 

"  I  won't  believe  it !     You  once  cared  for  me." 

"I  was    beginning   to.      But  that  is  past.      We 

needn't  talk  of  it." 

291 


MANDERS 

"  We  must  talk  of  it.  If  you  ever  cared  for  me 
you  care  for  me  now.  I  love  you,  and  I  want  your 
love  in  return." 

"  You  had  your  chance  and  you  threw  it  away.  If 
you  had  fought  it  out  with  me  that  time  in  Rome, 
perhaps  I  might  have  given  in  to  you.  But  you  ran 
away." 

"  You  sent  me  away  ! " 

"  The  man  I  should  think  it  worth  while  to  marry 
could  not  be  sent  away." 

"  But  I  have  come  back !  " 

"  Too  late.  You  did  not  think  me  worth  the  -win- 
ning at  the  right  time.  That  is  the  one  thing  a 
woman  can't  forgive." 

He  swam  around  to  come  beside  her. 

"  You  shall  not  send  me  away  again.  You  shall 
be  mine  in  spite  of  yourself.  I  love  you.  I  love  you. 
No  one  else  shall  have  you." 

He  grasped  the  log  and  put  his  free  arm  about 
her. 

"Let  me  go!" 

"  Promise  to  be  my  wife ! " 

"  Let  me  go ! " 

"  Not  until  you  have  promised  me  I " 

She  released  her  hold  on  the  log  and  thrust  against 
it,  struggling  to  free  herself  from  him.  But  he  held 
her  firmly. 

"  You  are  mad,"  she  cried. 

"Yes,  with  love  for  you.  I  care  for  nothing  but 
you.  You  are  my  world,  my  life!  If  I  lost  you 

292 


MANDERS 

once,  I  shall  not  lose  you  again.  You  have  laughed 
at  me,  despised  me!  You  shall  not  laugh  at  or 
despise  me  again  !  You  are  mine !  I  mean  to  have 
you !  " 

"Do  you  think  this  is  the  way  to  make  me  love 
you  ? "  renewing  her  vain  struggle  to  free  herself. 
"  You  are  a  brute  !  a  coward  ! " 

"  Yes,  both,  since  I  am  strong  enough  to  hold  you, 
and  since  i  am  afraid  to  live  without  you." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  looking  for  the  first  time 
into  his  face,  and  startled  by  what  she  saw  there. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,"  he  answered. 

She  looked  at  him  fixedly,  ceasing  to  struggle 
against  him. 

"  You  would  do  that  ?  "  she  asked,  a  curious  eager- 
ness in  her  voice. 

"  I  would  do  that,"  he  said  determinedly. 

"  You  think  you  can  frighten  me ! " 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  frighten  you.  If  we  go  ashore 
it  shall  be  as  affianced  lovera" 

She  laughed. 

"  And  you  would  trust  a  promise  got  in  that  way  ? " 

"  I  can  trust  you." 

"  And  you  would  take  an  enforced  wife  ? " 

"You  love  me." 

"  I  shall  not  give  you  the  promise," 

"No?" 

"No." 

He  let  go  his  hold  on  the  log,  clasping  her  tightly 
in  his  arms  and  pressing  his  lips  to  hers  passionately 

293 


MANDERS 

as  they  sank  into  the  water.  But  Florence  did  not 
struggle.  Instead,  she  clasped  her  arms  about  his 
neck  responsively,  it  seemed  to  him,  and  fearlessly, 
her  lips  still  held  against  his  own.  He  was  uncertain 
of  this  for  a  moment,  and  the  waters  above  his  head 
seemed  to  beat  his  thoughts  into  disorder,  but  under- 
standing came  to  him  with  a  rush  of  overwhelming 
emotion  and  he  released  his  clasp  from  her,  making  a 
joyous  sweep  of  his  arms,  forcing  his  way  upward 
unmindful  of  the  burden  clinging  so  closely  to  his 
neck. 

He  swam  for  the  log,  drawing  her  with  him,  and 
clutched  at  it,  holding  to  its  edge,  while  with  the 
other  arm  he  lifted  her  so  that  her  head  came  clear 
of  the  water.  She  drew  a  deep  breath  and  looked 
up  into  his  face  with  a  smile. 

"  You  arc  a  strange  wooer,"  she  said. 


•94 


CHAPTER   XXII 

MANDERS  was  unwilling  to  leave  Marie  this  morning. 
Something  seemed  to  keep  him,  as  he  confessed  to 
her  when  she  warned  him  playfully  that  he  was 
wasting  time. 

"  Every  time  I  start  for  the  door  it  is  the  same  as 
if  someone  said, '  Wait  a  while,  Manders,'  and  I  can't 
go  out.  You  are  sure  you  are  feeling  all  right  ? " 

"  You  foolish  boy !  don't  you  see  how  well  I  am  ? 
Don't  you  see  how  much  better  I  am  ?  Doctor  Besnard 
is  a  wonderful  man,  almost  as  wonderful  a  man  as 
you  are,  dearie ;  and  between  you  I  am  getting  ever 
so  well" 

Manders  had  learned  the  trick  of  smiling  with  the 
lips  without  taking  counsel  of  his  heart,  and  he 
looked  brightly  into  Marie's  face ;  but  something 
wrenched  more  fiercely  than  usual  within  his  breast, 
and  the  lips  paled  as  they  smiled.  The  remarkable 
clearness  and  transparency  of  her  face  and  throat 
made  him  think  of  those  exquisite  lilies  of  the  Easter, 
which  are  so  delicate  your  thumb  and  finger  pressed 
upon  a  petal  bruise  it  to  perishing.  And  in  her 
cheeks  he  saw  the  thumb  and  finger  pinch  of  an 

295 


MANDERS 

invisible  cruel  hand,  and  it  seemed  to  him  so  much 
more  vividly  distinct  this  morning. 

Marie,  bending  over  her  work,  had  only  noted  the 
smile,  and  she  drew  comfort  from  it,  for  she  had  come 
to  regard  every  firm,  cheery  word  of  the  doctor's  and 
every  sunny  look  of  Manders  as  evidence  that  her 
improvement  was  not  a  delusion  of  her  own  imagina- 
tion merely.  To  strengthen  her  self-confidence  Doctor 
Besnard  encouraged  her  industry  with  the  needle, 
and  Miss  Warley  had  given  her  hints  in  embroidery, 
so  that  Marie  had  come  to  think  herself  rather  an 
artistic  as  well  as  expert  needlewoman.  Pride  in 
what  had  become  really  high-class  work  gave  her 
the  energy  to  its  accomplishment,  and  the  good 
doctor  declared  more  than  once  to  Miss  Warley, — 

"  It  beats  all  my  experience ;  but  the  work  she 
is  doing  is  her  medicine.  I  suppose  it  is  because 
it  keeps  her  mind  active  in  a  useful  employment.  I 
must  experiment  along  that  line.  Keep  her  busy; 
there  is  no  danger  of  her  overdoing." 

So  Marie  had  the  habit  of  early  rising  to  begin 
her  work  in  the  freshness  of  the  warm  sunshine, 
and  though  she  rested  many,  many  times  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  it  surprised  them  all  what 
quantities  of  sewing  she  managed  to  do  in  a  week's 
time. 

It  was  not  altogether  in  jest,  then,  that  she  said 
to  Manders  this  morning, — 

"Now,  you  must  not  stand  around  to  make  me 
talk  to  you,  for  that  hinders  my  work.  Away  with 

296 


MANDERS 

you.     And,  Handera,  I  sha'n't  scold  if  you  bring  me 
an  orange  when  you  coma" 

But  when  he  had  gone  down  into  the  street  he 
lingered  about  the  doorway,  undecided  and  reluctant 
He  went  as  far  as  the  corner  and  returned,  thinking 
he  would  better  go  up  to  Marie  again,  but  could  find 
no  excuse.  Then  he  remembered  what  she  had  said 
about  an  orange.  He  would  take  one  up  to  her 
now.  He  ran  to  the  dpicerie  two  turnings  along  the 
street.  The  grocer's  wife  was  in  charge. 

"  How  much  for  your  best  oranges,  madame  ? " 
"Four   sous  each,  mon  joli  garpon.    How  many 
will  you  have?" 

"  One — six.  But  I  shall  pay  you  for  them  this 
evening;  I  have  not  made  my  money  yet" 

"  Ha !  ha !  one  would  say  you  had  dealings  at 
the  Bourse !  Eh !  well ;  there  are  your  oranges, 
and  if  you  sing  in  front  of  my  door  this  evening, 
I  shall  not  mind  the  odd  four  sous." 

"  Thank  you,  madame ;  but  I  never  get  less  than 
ten  sous  for  a  song,"  said  Manders,  taking  his  bag  of 
oranges,  and  throwing  her  a  pleasantly  impudent 
glance. 

"  Ha  !  ha !  the  little  droll !  You  might  own  Paris 
at  that  rate  one  of  these  days." 

As  Manders  approached  his  number,  he  saw  a  cab 
stop  before  the  entrance  and  a.  man  get  out  The 
figure  was  too  familiar  to  him  to  permit  of  an 
instant's  doubt  or  mistake,  and  Manders  stopped 
still  as  he  recognised  Blakemore. 

H| 


MANDERS 

His  face  paled  and  flushed  by  turns,  and  his  heart 
beat  violently  as  he  recalled  the  words  Marie  had 
babbled  and  moaned  in  her  sleep  as  he  knelt  by 
her  bedside.  One  thing  she  had  said  which  pierced 
him  through,  and  for  that  he  hated  this  man  for 
whom  his  mother  had  called  so  piteously. 

Blakemore  had  paid  his  fare  and  entered  the 
house  before  Manders  could  get  possession  of  him- 
self. Blakemore  was  going  rapidly  up  the  third 
flight  when  Manders  overtook  him. 

"Wait!"  Manders  called  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Is  it  you,  Manders  ? "  Blakemore  asked,  stopping 
and  looking  into  the  semi-darkness  behind  him. 

"Yes.  You  must  let  me  go  first.  You  mustn't 
come  until  I  tell  you." 

He  spoke  authoritatively,  going  by  without  greet- 
ing Blakemore  and  running  swiftly  up  the  stairs  to 
the  door,  where  he  stopped,  panting  for  breath,  but 
entered  the  room  before  Blakemore  could  come  up 
to  him,  singing  as  he  entered,  as  he  always  did  on 
coming  home  to  Marie. 

"Why  have  you  come  back  so  soon?"  Marie 
asked  chidingly  yet  gratefully,  too,  he  was  so 
precious  to  her  eyes. 

"I  bring  you  oranges!" 

"  So  many !  I  only  dreamed  of  one.  This  is 
wicked  extravagance.  You  must  take  the  others 
back." 

"  On  the  contrary,  you  must  eat  them  all.  They 
are  magic  oranges.  They  are  not  two-sou  affairs 

298 


MANDERS 

such  as  Mere  Pugens  brings  to  you  once  in  a  while. 
Look  at  that  one,  now !  Do  you  know  what  will 
happen  when  you  eat  it,  if  you  put  the  seeds  in  a 
circle  and  make  a  wish  for  something — no,  that 
isn't  right — oh,  yes,  you  must  make  a  wish  to  see 
someone — that  is  it — and  if  there  are  as  many 
seeds  as  there  are  letters  in  the  name,  you  will 
see  the  person  that  very  day.  Miss  Warley  told  me 
all  about  it" 

"  How  wonderful !  "  said  Marie,  smiling. 

"You  mustn't  laugh;  it's  true..  Let's  try  it  now. 
It  won't  take  two  minutes.  And  who  will  you 
think  of  ?  Who  would  you  like  to  see  ?  Captain 
Warley?  He  hasn't  been  here  in  a  long  time. 
But,  then,  he  is  too  old  to  be  interesting,  isn't  he? 
So  is  M.  Monier.  You  used  to  have  a  lot  of  friends 
you  don't  see  any  more.  Isn't  there  one  of  them 
you  can  think  of?" 

Marie  was  amused  by  the  way  he  rattled  on, 
with  an  air  of  mock  gravity  and  taking  the 
seeds  from  her,  as  if  each  one  were  big  with 
destiny. 

"  You  are  to  find  out  from  the  orange  seeds  who 
it  is  I'm  going  to  see." 

There  was  one  seed  more  than  he  wanted,  and  he 
rid  himself  of  it  secretly,  arranging  and  rearranging 
the  others  in  a  perplexed  way,  trying  a  variety  of 
names,  finally,  as  if  by  an  inspiration,  crying  out 
with  the  energy  of  triumph, — 

"  Blakemore  1  That  name  fits  1  You  are  going 
299 


MANDERS 

to  see  Monsieur  Blakemore!  What  an  odd  thing 
that  would  be!  He'll  have  to  cross  the  ocean." 

He  professed  to  think  he  was  having  rare  fun  at 
his  game,  pretending  not  to  see  the  convulsive  way 
in  which  Marie's  hand  was  pressed  against  her  side, 
or  the  sudden  flush  that  came  into  her  face;  and 
he  went  on  with  his  chatter  until  he  saw  her  com- 
posure returning.  Then  suddenly  looking  up  at  her, 
his  face  smiling,  he  exclaimed, — 

"  If  you  really  want  to  see  him,  you  shall !  Shall 
I  get  him  ?  You  don't  believe  I  can  ?  Youll  see ! " 
and  before  she  realised  what  was  passing,  Blakemore 
had  entered  the  room. 

He  had  advanced  to  within  a  few  steps  of  her 
before  he  saw  her  clearly,  and  he  stopped  short  as 
if  a  powerful  blow  had  been  struck  in  his  face. 
This  woman,  rising  so  unsteadily  to  her  feet,  with 
half -outstretched  arms,  a  mysterious  smile  of  tremu- 
lous hope  on  the  thin  lips  and  shining  through 
the  transparent  face,  this  was  not  Marie? 

In  the  same  instant  a  realisation  of  the  other's 
thoughts  came  to  each  of  them.  The  smile  and  the 
joy  vanished  from  Marie's  face,  a  shiver  seemed  to 
pass  over  her,  her  arms  drooped  down  to  her  sides, 
and  she  would  have  fallen,  but  that  Blakemore,  a 
pitiful  tenderness  swelling  in  his  breast,  sprang 
forward  with  his  arms  outheld  to  receive  her. 

Manders  stole  out  into  the  hall,  closing  the  door 
behind  him,  and  crouched  down  in  the  angle  of  the 
staircase  where  it  was  darkest,  his  face  between  his 

300 


MANDERS 

knees  and  his  hands  clasped  at  the  back  of  his  head. 
He  was  holding  himself  down  in  a  struggle.  Jacob 
wrestled  through  the  night  no  more  desperately 
against  the  force  that  opposed  him  than  Manders 
wrestled  with  his  temptation  in  the  dark  corner  of 
the  stairs.  The  agony  of  loss  and  desolation  had 
pierced  him  in  the  tone  of  Marie's  voice  when  she 
cried  out  at  the  sight  of  Blakemore.  The  cry  came 
back  to  him,  articulate,  intelligible,  addressing  itself 
directly  to  him.  "I  don't  need  you  any  more. 
Manders ! "  it  was  saying  to  him.  "  I  don't  need 
your  love,  your  care,  your  protection  any  more. 
My  heart  has  come  back  to  me !  I  can  get  well 
now!"  His  soul  was  bruised  with  the  sound  of 
it,  and  his  thoughts  were  bitter  with  the  bitterness 
of  jealousy  and  death,  not  good  fruits  of  the  infant 
mind.  This  jealousy  was  more  than  the  passion  of 
supplanted  love;  it  was  the  anguish  of  superseded 
devotion.  The  very  essence  and  life  of  his  happi- 
ness was  the  fact  that  he  was  Marie's  champion, 
defender,  provider,  that  she  had  become  dependent 
upon  him,  and  that  he  was  equal  to  the  obligation. 
The  idol  of  his  love  was  the  helpless  object  of  his 
care,  and  the  rapture  of  his  song  was  the  pride  of 
his  faith.  If  he  were  no  longer  needed  for  this 
service,  if  she  no  longer  looked  to  him  as  her  prop 
and  stay,  what  need  for  him  at  all?  She  had 
needed  him  until  Blakemore  came ;  she  would  need 
him  again  if  Blakemore —  Why  had  he  come? 
What  right  had  he  to  come?  Why  should  lie  be 

301 


MANDERS 

here  now?  A  dull  memory  of  bis  own  words  to 
Miss  Warley  came  as  an  answer  to  him.  "  Tell  him 
my  maman  wants  him."  Yes;  Blakemore  had  not 
come  unbidden.  That  much  was  clear.  But  there 
was  no  reason  for  his  staying.  "  He  must  not  stay ! 
He  sha'n't  stay  !  "  And  the  cry  seemed  to  say  to 
him  anew,  "  My  heart  has  come  back  to  me !  I  can 
get  well  now ! "  Over  and  over  the  words  repeated 
themselves,  "I  can  get  well  now;  I  can  get  well 
now!"  until  Manders  began  to  use  them  as  a 
weapon  for  his  own  defence,  beating  down  with 
them  the  spirit  of  violence  striving  to  master  him. 
The  victory  came  at  last,  came  with  a  flood  of  tears 
and  a  convulsion  of  sobs  that  seemed  to  rack  his 
very  being,  but  which,  subsiding,  permitted  him  to 
see  his  angel  of  Peniel. 

Presently  there  was  the  sound  of  footsteps  ascend- 
ing the  stairs.  It  was  Doctor  Besnard  coming  for  his 
regular  semi-weekly  visit.  Manders  dried  his  eyes, 
but  drew  closer  into  the  angle,  holding  his  breath 
as  the  doctor  passed.  Though  he  had  mastered 
himself,  he  was  unwilling  that  any  friendly  eye 
should  see  the  signs  of  the  struggle.  He  watched 
the  doctor  enter  as  Blakemore  held  open  the  door, 
and  it  puzzled  him  that  Doctor  Besnard  seemed  in 
nowise  surprised  to  be  greeted  by  this  stranger.  It 
did  not  come  within  the  range  of  his  knowledge 
that  an  experienced  physician  allows  nothing  to 
surprise  him,  and  therefore  he  concluded  that  Doctor 
Besnard  knew  all  about  Blakemore,  and  was  pre- 

302 


MANDERS 

pared  for  his  appearance.  When  the  door  closed  he 
felt  shut  out.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
caught  a  sympathetic  sense  of  what  it  means  to  be 
alone  in  the  world.  He  had  thought  of  others 
being  alone,  and  had  been  sorry  for  them,  looking 
especially  with  a  curious  pity  upon  the  school  pro- 
cession of  coarsely-uniformed  children  who  were 
named  orphans;  but  he  had  never  had  the  thing 
brought  home  to  him  along  the  way  of  kindred 
emotions  until  now,  and  it  terrified  him.  He  thought 
he  must  run  to  beat  at  the  door,  calling  out  that  he 
was  there;  but  he  remembered  that  there  was  no 
need  of  that — the  door  would  open  to  his  touch, 
and  there  were  kisses  and  love  and  friendliness 
beyond  it  ready  for  his  taking.  No;  there  was 
no  need  of  anything  from  him  but  to  go  down 
the  stairs  and  into  the  streets  to  the  beginning  of 
his  labours.  There  was  still  the  need  of  being,  of 
holding  life  in  a  firm  grip,  fearlessly.  If  Marie  no 
longer  required  his  services,  he  still  had  duties  to 
perform,  and  chief  of  these  was  to  do  the  best 
that  was  in  him  to  do.  He  had  need  of  himself! 

As  he  walked  along,  going  in  the  direction  of  the 
river,  his  thoughts  buffeted  helpless  to  and  fro  be- 
tween mysteries  he  was  just  beginning  to  discern,  it 
occurred  to  him  to  tell  Mere  Pugens  of  Blakemore's 
arrival.  He  did  not  choose  that  she  should  find  it 
out  for  herself ;  he  did  not  choose  to  have  her  think 
that  Marie  had  anything  to  do  with  the  coming.  His 
reasons  were  not  well-defined,  but  he  was  sure  of  his 

303 


MANDERS 

conclusions,  and  he  went  at  once  to  the  shop.  Happily 
Mere  Pugens  was  occupied  with  a  patron  for  whom 
she  was  weighing  out  some  tobacco.  He  took  advan- 
tage of  the  situation  to  call  to  her  from  the  door, — 

"  Monsieur  Blakemore  has  come !  I  sent  for  him ! 
Maman  didn't  know ! " 

He  was  off  before  Mere  Pugens  had  fully  grasped 
what  he  was  saying.  Having  told  this  woman  because 
he  thought  in  that  way  to  shield  Marie  from  the 
effects  of  surprise  in  the  garrulous  and  too  inquisitive 
dame,  Manders  felt  that  it  would  be  a  sort  of  treason 
not  to  tell  Miss  Warley.  He  recollected,  too,  that 
to-morrow  was  lesson  day,  and  Miss  Warley  would 
come  expecting  him  to  play  and  sing.  It  was  neces- 
sary, therefore,  to  let  her  know  in  time  that  there 
were  to  be  no  more  lessons ;  not  for  the  present  at 
least  —  certainly  not  in  the  rooms  in  the  Rue  St 
Jacques  where  Blakemore  was  likely  to  come. 

"  And  is  he  to  take  her  away  ? "  Miss  Warley  asked 
when  Manders  had  finished. 

"Take  her  away!"  he  cried,  becoming  rigid  and 
looking  fiercely  at  Miss  Warley.  "No!"  Then  in- 
terpreting the  surprise  of  her  eyes,  he  fell  into  a 
tremble,  looked  down,  fumbling  with  his  cap,  and 
saying,  in  such  a  humbled  way  that  she  put  her  hand 
tenderly  upon  his  head,  "  I  don't  know.  They  haven't 
talked  to  me.  I  came  away  because — because  I  have 
my  work  to  do.  What  makes  you  think  he  is  going 
to  take  her  away  ? " 

M Because  I  think  it  would  be  good  for  her.  Come; 
304 


MANDERS 

it  is  not  a  thing  to  make  you  unhappy — you  would 
go  with  them.  She  wouldn't  go  away  and  leave 
you." 

"Yes;  she  is  going  away  to  leave  me.  i  know 
that  well  enough.  I  have  known  that  a  long  time — 
but  I  didn't  think  anyone  could  take  her  from  me— 
anyone  but  God." 

"No  one  but  God  can  take  her  from  you,  dear. 
Come ;  you  are  not  fit  for  your  work  to-day.  Don't 
go.  Stay  with  aae,  and  after  a  while  I'll  go  with  you 
to  see  your  maman  and  Mr  Blakemore.  You  can't 
sing  to-day." 

"I  don't  have  to  be  happy  to  sing.  I  sing  best 
when  it  pains  here,"  pressing  his  clenched  hand 
against  his  breast  "They'll  pay  me  well  for  my 
songs  to-day." 

Blakemore  thought  as  Miss  Warley  thought,  and 
about  the  time  she  was  talking  on  the  subject  with 
Manders  he  was  asking  Doctor  Besnard  as  to  the 
advisability  of  taking  Marie  away.  He  had  followed 
the  doctor  to  the  door. 

"  Don't  you  think  a  change  of  scene  would  be  bene- 
ficial?" 

"  Oh !  changes  help  for  a  little  while  sometimes, — 
as  long  as  they  tonic  the  mind.  I  should  not  expect 
much  from  it  in  this  case.  You  are  better  than  a 
change  of  scene.  I'm  going  to  speak  frankly  to  you. 
Madame  Manders,  who  was  a  woman  of  exceptional 
constitution,  would  never  have  fallen  a  victim  to  this 
disease  if  she  had  not  been  pining — that  is  the  right 

U 


MANDERS 

word,  Monsieur  Blakemore  —  if  she  had  not  been 
pining  for  a  love  that  was  for  some  reason  denied 
her." 

w  Refused  by  her,  doctor." 

"  I  do  not  quarrel  with  terms.  I  had  some  idea  of 
the  kind  from  the  first,  and  in  spite  of  her  reticence 
I  gathered  enough  from  subsequent  conversations 
with  her  to  confirm  my  opinion.  When  I  entered 
her  room  half  an  hour  ago  and  observed  the  way  she 
looked  at  you  the  case  was  perfectly  clear  to  me.  If 
you  had  come  six  months  ago  I  should  not  have  had 
to  tell  you  as  I  tell  you  now — you  have  come  too 
late." 

"  I  did  not  know.     Can  nothing  be  done  ? " 

"Nothing.  The  only  question  is  as  to  how  long 
you  personally — by  your  presence,  by  your  manner, 
by  your  devotion,  can  avert  the  inevitable.  The  mind 
prolongs  life,  and  I  am  not  so  sure  that  it  couldn't 
save  life  if  we  only  knew  how  to  use  it,  and  used  it 
in  time." 

"I  was  thinking  of  going  by  boat  to  the  south 
coast  ? " 

"A  delightful  trip — but  wait  a  few  days."  The 
doctor  spoke  kindly,  not  encouragingly.  "You  see 
her  stronger  than  she  really  is.  She  is  sustained 
by  an  extraordinary  excitement  to-day.  Wait  until 
I  can  judge  how  far  the  reaction  is  likely  to  take 
her." 

"  Why  should  there  be  any  reaction  ?  Why  do  you 
expect  it  ?  " 

306 


MANDERS 

"  Because  we  doctors  don't  know  any  better." 

The  door  of  the  inner  room  opened  and  Marie 
appeared,  leaning  against  the  frame  as  she  said 
smilingly, — 

"  I  am  afraid  you  two  are  talking  behind  my  back. 
I  tried  to  hear  you  but  couldn't.  It  isn't  polite  of 
you  to  leave  me  alone  while  you  gossip  about  I  don't 
know  what." 

"  You  are  right/'  said  the  doctor,  cheerily ;  "  we 
were  conspiring  against  you.  We  were  planning  a 
river  excursion  all  the  way  to  the  Mediterranean  by 
boat  How  would  you  like  that  ? " 

"  Charming,  doctor !  But,  alas !  you  are  always 
talking  to  me  of  doing  things  I  can't  afford." 

"  Well,  be  a  good  girl  for  a  week  and  maybe  one 
of  the  saints  will  drop  a  purse  in  your  lap.  Here, 
don't  go  back  in  there  to  lie  down.  Put  a  shawl 
around  you  and  sit  out  on  the  balcony.  There  isn't 
any  better  sunshine  than  that  this  side  of  Kingdom 
Come,  and  it's  criminal  to  waste  it.  Keep  her  out  in  it, 
Monsieur  Blakemore,  as  long  as  it  lasts.  I  must  be  off 
I  can't  waste  all  my  time  here  with  you,  my  girl,  for 
I  have  people  who  are  really  sick  to  look  after.  Good- 
bye. I've  got  to  make  a  call  up  this  way  to-morrow 
morning.  Maybe  I'll  have  time  to  drop  in  here  for  a 
moment,  but  don't  expect  me." 

"  What  a  humbug  you  are,  doctor ! " 

He  had  fairly  carried  her  into  the  tiny  balcony  in 
front  of  the  two  long  porte-windows  of  the  back 
room,  the  windows  opening  on  to  it  at  a  level  with 

307 


MANDERS 

the  floor.  He  wrapped  her  up  lightly  and,  jesting 
that  she  only  clung  to  this  affectation  of  sickness 
because  she  liked  his  attentions,  shook  a  finger  at  her 

o 

rebukingly,  and  left  her  to  Blakemore. 

There  was  not  room  for  two  chairs  on  the  balcony, 
and  Blakemore  sat  just  behind  Marie  and  within  the 
room. 

"  That  makes  it  easy  for  you  to  use  me  as  a  cushion," 
he  said,  inducing  her  to  lean  against  him. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  we  have  sat  this  way  before, 
and  that  you  said  just  those  same  words  to  me.  Indeed, 
all  the  time  since  you  came,  everything  has  been  like 
a  repetition  of  something  said  or  done  in  the  same 
way  before.  Don't  you  think  it  very  queer  ?  I  mean 
the  way  one's  fancies  play  tricks  with  one  ?  " 

"You  know  some  people  believe  that  we  are  not 
having  new  experiences  in  this  life  but  are  only 
living  over  old  ones." 

"You  and  I  are  not  silly  enough  to  believe  that, 
are  we  ?  But  tell  me  why  you  came  back  to  Paris  ? " 

"  To  be  with  you." 

"  That  is  what  you  said  a  while  ago,  and  I  didn't 
scold  you  because  it  pleased  me.  I  let  myself  think 
for  a  little  time  that  you  really  had  come  back  to  be 
with  me.  But  I  am  asking  you  seriously  now.  Have 
you  come  to  work  ?  Have  you  done  great  work  since 
I  saw  you  ?  And  the  picture — did  you  ever  finish  it  ? 
I  am  foolish  to  ask  so  many  questions.  I  don't  know 
how  it  is,  but  you  seem  to  answer  them  as  fast  as  I 
ask  them,  or  else  they  answer  themselves.  My  mind 

308 


MANDERS 

behaves  strangely  when  I  haven't  got  ray  sewing.  I 
think  you'd  better  hand  it  to  me  from  the  table  in  the 
other  room,  I  haven't  taken  a  stitch  since  you  came. 
You  must  not  make  an  idler  of  me." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you  idling  on  the  seashore ! 
I  want  you  to  be  well  enough  to  start  by  the  end  of 
the  week.  We'll  have  a  jolly  trip  down  the  river  in 
a  boat  of  our  own — you  and  Manders,  and  Miss  Warley, 
perhaps,  and  I.  And  when  we  come  to  the  sea — " 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  purring  sort  of  laugh. 

"  You  remind  me  of  the  way  my  father  told  fairy 
stories  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  He  was  always 
sending  ships  to  sea,  and  I  used  to  sail  away  in  them 
to  wonderful  countries.  Our  fairy  tales  never  come 
true,  do  they  ? " 

"  But  this  is  not  a  fairy  story — it  is  going  to  be  sure 
enough." 

She  smiled,  looking  into  the  blue  distances  and 
shaking  her  head. 

"No;  I'm  never  going  away  from  these  little 
rooms.  I've  only  been  waiting  for  you,  Walter, 
Now  that  you  have  come,  there  is  but  one  thing  more 
to  wait  for — just  the  one  thing,  Walter." 

There  was  a  stir  among  the  leaves  of  a  tree  that 
hung  over  the  roof  of  a  low  house  opposite  them,  and 
he  drew  the  wrap  closer  about  her  throat,  holding  it 
in  place. 

"  You  are  not  to  talk  in  that  way.  All  that  is  past. 
We  are  to  be  happy  together ;  I'll  have  to  scold  you 
in  my  turn,  if  you  don't  keep  that  in  mind." 

309 


MANDERS 

She  pub  up  her  hand  to  stroke  his  cheek  and  press 
his  head  against  her  own. 

"  Yes,  we  are  to  be  happy  together — but  here  where 
I  knew  you  first.  They  wanted  me  to  go  away  long 
ago,  but  I  would  not.  I  never  told  them  why,  but  they 
seemed  to  understand  that  it  was  best  to  let  me  have 
my  way.  It  was  best,  too.  I  could  not  have  waited 
for  you  so  long  anywhere  else." 

"  But  you  will  go  with  me !  We  can  be  so  much 
happier  if  you  will  do  as  I  wish!  It  is  so  much 
pleasanter  away  from  the  cities  at  this  time  of  the 
year !  You  would  like  to  see  Marseilles  again  ? " 

"  For  me  there  is  no  place  pleasanter  than  this.  I 
am  content.  I  am  happy.  There  is  only  one  thing 
to  make  me  sorrowful  now — but  I  have  wept  all  my 
tears  away  over  it — my  boy,  my  poor  Edward,  my 
Manders — what  is  to  become  of  him  ? " 

"He  will  be  cared  for,  Marie — you  yourself  will 
care  for  him,  and  then — and  then  he  shall  come 
to  me." 

"  Ah !  Walter,  you  are  good  !  Love  my  boy  !  I 
know  he  is  to  be  something  in  the  world,  but  a  little 
child  cannot  fight  his  way  alone.  And  he  will  miss 
me  so.  It  is  worth  while  dying  if  you  will  take  my 
place.  You  cannot  help  but  love  him.  I  haven't 
failed  of  my  duty  altogether  if  I  leave  him  such  a 
friend  as  you.  What  a  foolish  thing  my  life  has 
been.  I  wonder  why  God  plays  with  us  ? " 

"  Marie  !  We  are  not  going  to  talk  any  more  in  this 
way.  I  have  a  multitude  of  things  to  tell  you— <•" 

310 


MANDERS 

"Yes — and  tell  me  first  about  Miss  Storey.  I 
thought  you  would  be  married  by  this  time.  When 
is  it  to  be?" 

"  It  is  not  to  be,  Marie." 

"Not  to  be?    Why?" 

"  Because  she  has  found  out  that  I  am  not  the  kind 
of  man  that  she  can  love." 

"  Not  the  kind  of  man !  Ha !  you  are  jesting  with 
me!"  She  put  up  her  hand  and  gave  his  cheek  a 
reproving  pinch. 

"  No ;  she  was  right,  Marie.  I  am  too  easily  swayed 
by  circumstances  to  suit  a  woman  who  demands  that 
her  husband  be  the  master  of  his  own  destiny,  a 
governor  of  forces." 

"  But  you  are  an  artist — an  artist  with  something 
of  the  poet  in  him!  What  is  greater  than  a  great 
artist  ?  She  doesn't  love  you,  then  ?  ' 

"No." 

"  Poor  Walter !  They  say  the  heart  wears  out  that 
loves  without  having  love  in  return." 

"Let  me  console  myself  in  loving  you,  Marie!" 
He  put  his  arms  about  her. 

"  You  pity  me,"  she  said,  closing  her  eyes,  her  lips 
quivering  as  she  spoke. 

"  No,  I  pity  myself.  My  chance  of  happiness  came 
and  dwelt  with  me  and  I  turned  aside  from  it,  not 
knowing.  I  am  being  punished  through  you,  Marie, 
who  should  have  been  my  inspiration  and  my  reward. 
It  was  such  a  love  as  yours  that  I  needed  to  make  my 
life  complete." 

311 


MANDERS 

She  made  no  reply,  and  her  arm  slipped  from  the 
support  of  the  chair  and  hung  down,  limp  and  motion- 
less. She  was  as  still  as  if  life  had  left  her ;  but  there 
was  a  faint,  sweet  smile  on  her  lips  and  the  lashes  of 
her  eyes  were  wet  with  tears.  Her  face  was  turned  a 
little  toward  him,  her  head  resting  against  his  arm  on 
the  top  of  the  chair.  He  regarded  her  for  some  time 
in  silence,  marvelling  at  the  serene  and  noble  beauty 
of  the  white,  thin  face.  It  was  not  the  face  he  had 
painted.  He  looked  at  the  chin ;  the  dimple  was  no 
longer  there.  He  bent  to  kiss  the  spot  where  it  had 
been. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

NOTHING  further  was  said  about  going  away.  M  There 
is  nothing  to  gain  by  going,"  Doctor  Besnard  said  to 
Blakemore,  with  a  shake  of  the  head  the  next  day, 
and  the  headshake  conveyed  more  than  the  words 
declared.  Besides,  had  Marie  been  readier  for  the 
excursion  proposed,  there  really  was  no  reason  for 
wishing  to  quit  Paris  just  now.  The  city  had  put 
on  more  than  its  customary  charm  of  autumnal 
beauty  and  softness,  and  the  air  of  the  mornings 
and  afternoons  and  evenings  was  like  a  caress.  No 
place  could  be  better  tempered  to  the  delicate  needs 
of  an  invalid,  and  Marie — one  of  those  misguided 
creatures  who  imagine  that  absence  from  Paris  is 
exile — thought  no  scene  could  be  BO  lovely  or  so 
delight-giving.  In  her  opinion,  a  drive  in  the  Bois 
far  exceeded  in  lively  interest  and  wholesome  bene- 
fit any  possible  driftings  by  river  or  rockings  by  sea, 
for  her  nature  was  exclusively  terrestrial.  So  there 
were  drives  in  the  Bois,  Marie  being  carried  up 
and  down  the  stairs,  to  and  from  the  carriage,  in  the 
arms  of  Blakemore,  a  portage  which  had  an  agree- 
ably perilous  excitement  for  her.  Usually  Miss 
Warley  went  with  them,  and  sometimes  the  captain 

313 


MANDERS 

lent  his  amiable  presence  to  the  party;  hut  neither 
Marie  nor  Blakemore  noticed  that  Manders  managed 
not  to  he  about  when  neither  of  the  Warleys  were 
to  go  for  the  drive,  though  Marie  unconsciously 
missed  something  of  value  from  the  benefits  of  the 
outings  when  Manders  was  not  in  his  favoured  place 
on  the  box  with  the  coachman.  Nor  did  anyone 
notice  as  the  drives  were  gradually  discontinued  and 
finally  given  up  altogether,  that  dark  lines  were 
coming  under  the  boy's  eyes,  and  that  there  was  a 
drawing  down  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  such  as 
suffering  makes  in  faces  below  which  beat  resisting 
hearts.  These  signs  seemed  to  vanish  mysteriously 
Tinder  Marie's  eyes,  and  she  comforted  herself  with 
saying,  "  He  doesn't  know ; "  but  he  might  have  told 
her  of  clairvoyant  nights  and  of  visions  by  day  had 
he  not  come  to  know  that  some  prophecies  are  sacred 
alone  to  the  mind  that  shapes  them.  Shutting  these 
experiences — for  they  were  realities  to  him — within 
the  silences  of  his  own  thought  had  matured  his 
faculties  to  such  an  extent  that  there  was  little 
more  of  the  child  left  in  him  than  the  anxiously 
adoring  love  of  Marie  that  had  always  filled  his 
heart.  He  was  readier  than  she  would  have  be- 
lieved for  the  hour  when  he  should  no  longer  have 
to  look  into  her  face  with  a  smile  while  he  fought 
down  the  wish  to  clasp  his  arms  about  her  neck 
and  pour  out  his  agony  in  tears. 

When  the  drives  were  abandoned,  and  Marie  con- 
tented herself  with  the  recreation  of  sitting  on  the 


MANDERS 

balcony,  or  lying  near  the  open  window  while  Blake- 
more  read  from  one  of  the  few  books  she  cared  for, 
Manders  got  into  the  way  of  keeping  to  the  streets 
of  the  neighbourhood,  returning  to  the  house  at  in- 
tervals to  climb  the  stairs  and  listen  at  the  door,  or 
peer  in  if  there  seemed  to  be  too  great  a  silence. 
Expectancy  of  an  invisible  coming  makes  the  heart 
afraid.  Manders  feared  not  to  be  there  when  the 
Comer  arrived.  Yesterday,  however,  he  had  crossed 
the  river  to  the  boulevards,  and  though  a  marvellous 
chance  had  come  to  him,  terror  seized  him  and  fled 
with  him  to  his  home  only  to  mock  him  with  the 
tranquillity  he  found  there.  But  the  memory  of 
that  terror  kept  him  at  home  to-day ;  and  then,  too, 
he  had  something  to  tell  Marie. 

"  Can  you  believe,"  he  said,  smiling  to  her  when 
they  were  alone,  "  that  I  forgot  you  for  a  little  time 
yesterday  ?  " 

"  No,  I  won't  believe  it ;  but  tell  me  about  it." 

"Did  you  ever  feel  yourself  pulled  along,  as  if 
you  had  to  go  where  you  didn't  want  to  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  everybody  feels  that  way  sometimes." 

"I  do  often,  and  I  always  let  it  pull  me,  because  I 
sometimes  think  it's  God.  .It  might  be,  don't  you 
think?" 

«  Who  knows  ?  " 

"  Well,  yesterday  it  was  that  way,  and  I  went  on 
until  I  found  myself  at  the  Madeleine  as  the  people 
were  coming  out  from  a  mass.  I  thought  what  a 
fine  crowd  to  sing  for  and  I  began  singing.  But 

3>5 


MANDERS 

they  didn't  stop  to  listen — not  many.  I  only  got 
twelve  sous  out  of  all  that  crowd.  Then,  do  you 
know  what  I  thought?  I  thought  God  didn't  pull 
me  that  time  ! " 

"Ah,  people  coming  out  of  church  are  not  the 
people  to  sing  to,"  said  Marie,  with  playful  serious- 
ness. 

"I  found  that  out  and  started  np  the  boulevard. 
When  I  came  to  the  Grand  Hotel,  I  stopped  under 
the  arch  and  looked  into  the  court.  There  were  a 
good  many  ladies  and  gentlemen  sitting  about,  and  I 
just  felt  as  if  I  must  go  in  and  sing  to  them.  I  was 
never  in  there  before,  but  I  went  in  and  walked  up 
to  the  wide  steps  that  go  all  the  way  across  one  side. 
You  know,  don't  you  1  Well,  I  put  one  foot  on  the 
bottom  step,  took  off  my  cap,  and  before  anybody 
knew  what  I  was  about  I  began  singing.  Right 
away  a  man  with  a  uniform  on  came  towards  me 
waving  his  hand  for  me  to  go  away,  and  calling  to 
me  to  stop.  But  a  lady  with  white  hair — I  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  she  is  a  queen  somewhere  —  held 
up  her  hand  and  said,  'No,  no,  let  him  sing;  he  is 
a  pretty  child  and  has  a  sweet  voice,'  and  others 
said  so,  too,  and  the  man  didn't  drive  me  away,  and 
I  sang,  and  they  gave  me  silver  pieces,  more  than 
I've  ever  earned  before." 

"That  was  beautiful,"  Marie  said,  a  loving  hand 
on  his  head,  a  happy  light  in  her  eyes. 

"  But  that  was  not  the  best  of  it ! "  exclaimed 
Manders,  struggling  to  repress  the  excitement  that 


MANDERS 

was  getting  the  better  of  his  dignity.  "They  were 
very  nice  to  me,  to  be  sure,  but  it  was  when  I  was 
going  away  that  the  big  thing  happened  1 " 

"  Something  happened  1 " 

u  I  should  say  so  !  A  gentleman  followed  me  out, 
and  on  the  street  he  said  he  would  like  to  talk  with 
me ;  so  I  went  into  the  cafe  on  the  corner  with  him. 
He  asked  me  all  kinds  of  questions  about  myself, 
about  you,  about  my  singing,  and  if  I  could  read  and 
write — and  then — and  then — what  do  you  think  he 
said  ?  Oh !  you  needn't  squeeze  your  brows  together ! 
You  could  never  guess.  I'm  going  to  tell  you.  He 
said  he  wanted  me  for  a  children's  opera  company 
that  he  was  going  to  have  in  the  United  States,  and 
he  said — are  you  listening  ? — that  he  would  give  me 
one  hundred  francs  a  week  and  take  care  of  me  I " 

There  was  an  expression  on  Marie's  face  that 
turned  all  his  triumph  into  despair,  and  he  cried 
out, — 

"  But  I  told  him  I  wouldn't  leave  you  for  all  the 
money  in  the  world." 

"No,  dear,"  she  said,  smiling  now,  "you  would 
never  leave  me;  I  wasn't  afraid  of  that.  I  was 
thinking  that  this  may  be  a  friend  God  has  sent 
to  you  just  when  you  may  need  a  friend.  And 
you  don't  know  who  he  is." 

"Yes,  he  gave  me  his  card." 

"  Keep  it,  little  one.  Who  knows  what  may  come 
of  it.  Monsieur  Walter  perhaps  can  tell  you  if  this 
is  a  worthy  man." 

3*7 


MANDERS 

Manders  took  one  of  his  mother's  hands,  stroking 
it  in  a  way  that  always  indicated  to  her  hit*  em- 
barrassed but  negative  state  of  mind. 

"If  you  please,  maman,"  he  said,  "I  don't  want 
M.  Walters  to  know  about  it — not  yet — not  till  I 
tell  him  myself." 

"What  a  man  yon  are  getting  to  be!  Eh,  well! 
manage  your  own  affairs!  1  shall  not  tell  him, 
monsieur !  But  you  might  be  condescending  enough 
to  kiss  me  for  keeping  your  secret." 

She  seemed  so  proud  of  him,  was  so  elated  by  the 
incident  of  the  "  manager  " — for  that  was  the  distinc- 
tive word  on  the  card — and  entered  so  heartily  into 
fancies  and  predictions  of  what  his  future  should  be, 
that  Manders  rose  into  such  a  glow  of  spirit  as  he 
had  not  known  in  months,  and  Miss  Warley  thought 
them  very  much  too  animated  when  she  came  in  for 
the  afternoon,  it  being  one  of  her  half-holidays. 

"  Never  mind,"  Marie  said  in  reply  to  Miss  Warley's 
chidings,  "  you  mustn't  blame  Manders,  and  there  is 
no  use  scolding  me,  you  know.  As  for  taking  a 
nap,  Walter  is  coming  to  read  to  me  presently ;  that 
always  puts  me  to  sleep,  he  reads  so  well." 

When  Blakemore  came,  Manders,  his  apprehensions 
calmed  by  the  joyous  hour  with  Marie,  felt  privileged 
to  make  a  short  tour  in  the  quarter  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg. "I  don't  have  to  earn  much;  I'm  rich  to- 
day; I  won't  be  long  away,"  he  laughed  to  Miss 
Warley  as  he  went  out  the  door. 

"Shall  I  go  on  with  'The  Idyls  of  the  King?'" 
318 


MANDERS 

Blakemore  asked,  reaching  down  the  Tennyson  from 
the  tiny  shelf  at  the  right  of  the  window. 

M  Yes,  I  suppose  so,  only — " 

"Only  what?" 

"  I  wonder  if  you  two  will  laugh  at  me !  But  I've 
been  thinking  that  I'd  like  to  hear  you  read  some- 
thing out  of  the  Bible?  Would  you?  looking  at 
him  wistfully  yet  diffidently. 

"  Why  not  ?  It  is  one  of  the  best  reading  books  in 
the  world.  Where  is  your  Bible?" 

"  In  my  room,  under  the  pillow.  Will  you  get  it, 
Miss  Warley  ?  I've  been  reading  it  a  little  to  myself 
every  day,  I  don't  know  why ;  I  never  used  to  care 
for  it  I'm  so  glad  you  don't  laugh  at  me,  Walter." 

"  Laugh  at  you,  Marie !    I  believe  in  the  Bible." 

"  Ah,"  she  sighed  in  a  satisfied  way,  "  then  read  to 
me  the  ninth  chapter  of  Acts.  That  seems  to  me  most 
wonderful — Paul  so  strangely  converted  and  able  to 
raise  the  dead  to  life." 

When  he  had  done  reading  she  asked,  "  Don't  you 
think  we,  too,  could  heal  the  sick,  and  bring  the  dead 
to  life  again,  if  we  really  believed  in  Christ  and  His 
teachings  ? " 

He  looked  at  her  curiously,  smiling,  but  making 
no  answer.  He  wondered  if  there  were  any  real 
believers  in  Christ  and  the  Word,  if  the  Christian 
religion  were  anything  more  in  these  days  than  a 
carefully-guarded  scabbard  for  the  sword  of  political 
power.  Marie  thought  the  smile  was  at  the  expense 
of  her  credulity. 

3'9 


MANDERS 

"  I  suppose  I  am  foolish,"  she  admitted.  "  Read  me 
something  else." 

He  turned  here  and   there  in  the  book,  reading 

*  O 

chapters  chosen  at  random  until  he  saw  that  she 
slept,  lying  easily  in  the  invalid's  chair,  stretched 
before  the  open  window.  He  sat  watching  her  for 
sometime,  and  Miss  Warley  brought  a  light  wrap 
to  lay  across  her  shoulders. 

"I  think  she  has  been  too  excited  to-day,"  she 
whispered.  "  I  hope  she  will  have  a  good,  restful  sleep." 

Blakemore  put  down  the  book  and  rose  saying, — 

"Yes.  I'll  go  down  and  finish  some  letters.  I'll 
eome  back  at  six  o'clock,  though  if  she  should  wake 
and  want  me,  I'll  be  ready  at  any  time.  Would  you 
call  me  ?  I'm  on  the  first  floor,  left,  you  know." 

That  she  might  not  disturb  Marie,  Miss  Warley 
took  her  chair  and  embroidery  into  the  other  room 
when  Blakemore  had  gone.  After  an  hour  she  looked 
in  upon  Marie,  who  was  still  in  that  serene  sleep,  and  in 
the  same  posture  as  before,  save  that  one  arm  was  now 
curved  above  her  head.  Miss  Warley  smiled  and  resumed 
her  work.  Another  hour  and  there  was  the  sound  of 
careful  footsteps  ascending  the  oak  stairs.  Manders  was 
coming.  Miss  Warley  went  quickly  to  the  door,  and 
opened  it  softly  as  Manders  stepped  upon  the  landing. 

"  Sh ! "  she  said,  putting  her  finger  on  her  lips,  and 
as  he  tiptoed  in,  she  added,  "  She  is  sleeping  beauti- 
fully, and  has  been  for  the  last  two  hours." 

"  That  is  good  for  her,  is  it  not  ? "  said  Manders. 

"Very  good.  She  doesn't  often  have  such  un- 
320 


MANDERS 

broken  sleep  for  BO  long  a  time,  I  know  right  well 
Now  that  you  have  come,  I  think  I'll  go,  Mr  Blake- 
more  is  coming  at  six.  What  time  does  the  woman 
come  ? " 

"  At  seven." 

"  And  stays  until  morning  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  gets  coffee  for  us. " 

"  I'll  come  in  at  noon  to-morrow.  Can  I  do  any- 
thing for  you  before  I  go  ? " 

"No,  I  thank  you." 

"You  look  tired." 

"But  I  am  not  I'll  sit  here,  where  I  can  watch 
her  through  the  doorway,  and  wait  till  she  wakea 
I've  something  to  tell  her,  something  to  amuse  her. 
I  wish  you  could  be  here." 

"  Don't  wake  her  up  with  wanting  to  amuse  her," 
shaking  a  warning  finger  at  him  as  she  whispered. 

"  I  sha'n't  wake  her,"  he  whispered. 

"  Good-bye." 

He  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  carae  to  take  up 
his  post  of  watching  just  where  through  the  doorway 
he  could  look  into  Marie's  face,  the  smile  on  which  he 
could  just  distinguish  in  the  shadow  thrown  by  her 
arm  curved  above  her  head.  He  thought  as  he 
watched  how  still  and  calm  she  slept;  he  was  hardly 
sure  whether  there  was  any  motion  of  the  light 
covering  above  her  breast  as  she  breathed,  and  he 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  breathe  as  gently  himself,  as 
if  a  sigh  too  rude  might  break  the  peaceful  spell  that 
sleep  had  laid  lovingly  upon  her. 

X 


MANDERS 

Blakemore  looked  up  from  his  writing  to  the  clock 
on  his  mantelpiece,  and  found  that  it  was  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  after  the  time  he  had  told  Miss  Warley  he 
would  return.  He  arose  at  once  and  started  up  the 
stairs.  As  he  came  near  to  Marie's  door,  he  heard 
Manders  singing,  a  weirdness  in  his  voice  that  made 
it  almost  strange,  and  he  stopped  to  listen,  doubting 
if  he  had  rightly  located  the  sound.  He  had  not  been 
mistaken,  and  he  recognised  the  song,  the  quaint,  sad- 
tuned  trifle  Manders  used  to  love  so  much  to  have  Marie 
sing  while  he  stood  weeping  by  her  side.  He  remem- 
bered the  words,  and  could  follow  the  singing  though 
the  words  were  hardly  distinguishable — 

**  If  the  light  should  go  and  the  roses  fade, 

And  earth  grow  cold  and  the  birds  not  sing, 

My  heart  should  not  be  the  least  afraid, 
For  love  of  you  makes  eternal  spring  1 

But  should  we  miss  love,  you  and  I, 

Though  death  were  life,  my  soul  would  die." 

He  opened  the  door  and  went  quickly  into  the 
inner  room.  Manders  was  on  his  knees  beside  Marie, 
his  arms  clasped  about  her,  holding  her  close  to  his 
breast,  rocking  to  and  fro  with  her  as  he  sang,  his 
cheek  pressed  against  hers,  his  eyes  shut  and  tear- 
less. Marie's  arms  hung  limply  down;  she  gave  no 
response  to  his  caresses.  Hearing  someone  enter,  he 
stopped  his  song  and  opened  his  eyes,  and  seeing 
Blakemore,  said  slowly,  as  he  still  rocked  to  and  fro, 
cradling  the  dreamless  sleeper, — 

"  She  is  mine  now — mine !     Don't  touch  her  1" 
/     322 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

"  WHERE  is  Manders  ? "  Captain  Warley  asked  when 
they  were  ready  to  come  away  from  that  walled-in 
city  in  which  Marie  is  waiting  for  the  new  day. 

The  four  of  them,  Manders,  Blakemore  and  the 
Warleys,  had  gone  in  the  same  carriage,  and  now  that 
the  mission  was  ended,  the  others  suddenly  missed  the 
desolated  object  of  their  common  sympathies.  The 
man  looked  about  anxiously,  but  Miss  Warley,  better 
understanding  the  boy  than  the  others  could,  said 
presently, — 

"  Let  us  not  try  to  find  him.  He  can  take  care  of 
himself." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  captain,  "  Matilda  is  right.  He  ia 
an  odd  little  chap.  We  wouldn't  know  how  to  com- 
fort him."  Then  a  little  while  later,  as  they  drove 
along,  he  asked  feelingly,  "  What  is  to  become  of  the 
boy?" 

"  If  he  will  come  with  me,"  said  Blakemore,  "  I  will 
do  with  him  as  if  he  were  my  own." 

"A  generous  purpose,  Mr  Blakemore.  There  is 
nothing  else  that  he  can  do.  I'm  sure  he  will  be 
glad  to  go  with  you.  But  hasn't  he  any  relatives  ? " 

323 


MANDERS 

"  His  father  had  some  brothers  in  England,  but  I 
believe  he  has  nothing  to  hope  for  from  them." 

"  Hasn't  he  any  rights  ?  " 

"I  think  not" 

**  Well,  it  doesn't  matter  if  he  has  such  a  man  as 
you  to  look  out  for  him.  Besides,  it  isn't  such  a  hard 
fate  for  a  boy  with  the  right  sort  of  stuff  in  him  to 
have  to  take  hold  of  the  world  for  himself.  I  think 
*  expectations '  have  been  the  ruin  of  more  lads  than 
have  ever  been  benefited  by  them.  Almost  every 
man  who  has  been  worth  a  pinch  of  salt  in  the 
affairs  of  the  world  has  had  to  battle  his  way  up 
single-handed  from  most  unfavourable  beginnings. 
It  takes  fighting  to  bring  the  best  qualities  into 
development,  to  give  force  to  character.  I  am  the 
bankrupt  of  a  prodigal  youth  myself.  My  father  did 
me  the  incalculable  injury  of  leaving  me  twenty 
thousand  pounds,  without  having  taught  me  how  to 
spend  it.  Luckily,  I  had  sense  enough  to  use  the 
dregs  to  buy  a  small  commission  in  the  army,  and  I 
was  able  to  patch  together  the  shreds  of  manhood 
well  enough  to  make  a  fairly  decent  showing  as  a 
soldier.  The  devil  1  if  it  were  not  for  the  asylum 
the  army  offers  them  thousands  of  decent  young 
men  would  go  bag  and  baggage  to  the  dogs  in  Eng- 
land, because  we  have  made  it  rather  a  discreditable, 
if  not  dishonourable,  thing  for  a  gentleman  to  be 
self-supporting  through  his  own  industry.  That  is 
where  you  Americans  are  a  generation  or  two  ahead 
of  us.  You  are  civilised  enough  to  appreciate  the 

324 


MANDERS 

V 

dignity  of  labour.  Give  the  boy  a  chance,  Mr 
Blakeinore,  but  prepare  him  to  be  self-reliant  and 
independent  Make  him  understand  that  he  has 
got  to  hew  out  his  own  path.  Do  you  know,  sir, 
that  the  thing  for  which  I  most  honour  the  Prince  of 
Wales  is  the  fact  that  he  knows  how  to  make  a  pair 
of  shoes  ?  That  is  something  he  can  do  for  himself ; 
he  had  nothing  «o  do  with  being  born  heir  to  a 
throne!  Teach  Manders  to  make  shoes,  horseshoes 
if  necessary,  but  don't  cram  a  silver  spoon  down  his 
throat  to  choke  him  to  death." 

Blakemore  saw  nothing  more  of  Manders  that 
day,  but  the  following  morning  there  was  a  knock 
at  his  door,  and  in  answer  to  his  "  Entrez,"  Manders 
came  in. 

"  I  want  to  talk  with  you,"  he  said 

"  And  I  with  you,  Manders,"  Blakemore  said  kindly, 
holding  out  his  hand. 

Manders,  who  stood  just  inside  the  door,  made  no 
responsive  movement,  though  his  face  was  unclouded, 
and  his  eyes  looked  frankly,  calmly  toward  Blake- 
more. 

"  You  and  I  should  be  the  best  of  friends,  Mandera 
I  am  your  friend  with  all  my  heart  Why  are  you 
not  mine  ?  What  has  changed  you  ?  You  used  to  be 
fond  of  me.  Why  are  you  not  now  ?  " 

Standing  as  he  was,  and  with  no  change  of  the 
placid  expression  that  seemed  so  unnatural  to  Blake- 
more, Manders  said,  without  a  tremor  of  feeling, — 

"One  night  my  maman  said  things  in  her  sleep 
32$ 


MANDERS 

that  no  one  else  but  yon  should  have  ever  heard 
Should  I  shake  hands  with  you  ?  " 

Blakemore  felt  his  own  go  down  under  the  gaze  of 
the  boy's  clear  eyes.  He  had  risen  and  gone  toward 
Manders,  but  he  returned  to  his  desk  and  sat  down. 

"  When  you  are  older,  Manders,  you  will  know  that 
we  sometimes  do  the  things  that  we  would  give  our 
lives  to  have  undone  again.  Well,  lad  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  know  how  much  you  have  paid  out  in 
these  weeks  ?  " 

If  Manders  had  crossed  over  and  struck  his  fist 
into  Blakemore's  face,  the  effect  upon  the  man  would 
not  have  been  different  from  that  produced  by  these 
words. 

"  Manders,  my  boy,"  looking  with  steady  reproach 
at  him,  but  speaking  with  gentleness,  "don't  forget 
that  I  too  was  loved!" 

There  was  a  momentary  loosening  of  the  boy's  lips 
and  a  quivering  of  the  eyelids,  and  then  the  calm 
again.  He  had  thought  of  all  this.  He  had  con- 
sidered everything.  He  was  prepared  for  just  this 
reminder. 

"  That  is  why  I  sent  for  you,"  he  said.  "  But  that 
is  over  now.  There  is  nothing  for  you  to  do  for  her. 
I  have  everything  to  do  for  her.  I  must  live  my  life 
for  her.  I  hated  you  when  you  came ;  I  don't  hate 
you  now.  Shall  I  tell  you  why  ?  Mere  Pugens  has 
talked  to  me.  She  told  me  what  my  papa  was  and 
how  he  died.  It's  an  awful  thing  to  die  that  way. 
And  MSre  Pugens  told  me  other  things  so  that  I 

326 


MANDERS 

might  understand ;  but  I  don't  understand  all ;  I 
only  know  that  I  have  got  to  live  BO  that  my 
maman  need  not  be  ashamed.  She  must  not  blame 
herself  for  me.  I  must  begin  in  the  right  way. 
How  much  have  you  paid  out?  And  Mere  Pugens 
says  that  you  must  have  paid  Miss  Warley,  too. 
How  much  is  it  all?" 

"  I  do  not  know ;  I  have  no  account." 

"  You  are  a  man ;  men  always  know  these  things ; 
tell  me." 

Blakemore  felt  himself  at  a  question  of  honour 
with  this  boy  in  whom  there  was  so  little  boyish- 
ness. He  could  not  trifle  with  him;  he  could  not 
humble  a  dignity  that  did  not  need  years  to  make 
it  admirable.  He  figured  with  his  pencil  for  * 
minute  or  so,  and  gravely  handed  Manders  a  slip 
of  paper  on  which  the  approximate  total  was 
given. 

"Those  figures  will  cover  everything,"  he  said. 
"And  now  let  us  talk  a  little  of  your  future, 
Handera.  I  want  to  help  you." 

"I  cannot  stop  now.  I  have  to  be  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river  at  noon.  Good-bye,  M.  Blake- 
more." 

"Thin  afternoon  or  to-morrow  morning,  then," 
Blakemore  said,  as  Manders  opened  the  door. 

"  Good-bye,  M.  Blakemore,"  Manders  repeated,  going 
out  and  shutting  the  door  behind  him. 

The  next  morning  Blakemore    found   this  letter 

C7 

thrust  under  his  door,  the  envelope  unaddressed: — 

327 


MANDERS 

"  M.  BLAKEMORE, — This  will  Tell  you  that  i  oh  you 
1,800  francs  and  That  I  Will  pay  you.  i  dont  no 
when  but  I  know  i.  will,  i  shall  send  It  to  you  as 
fast  as  i  urn  it.  i  Am  going  awa,  and  not  see  you 
ani  more.  I  have  taking  all  my  things  in  the  little 
trunk  that  is  mine  and  som  things  that  are  maman's. 
i  leave  all  the  rest  of  the  rooms  as  they  are.  if  there 
is  ani  thing  in  them  you  want  it  is  yours,  i  Have 
taking  maman's  pillow  tho.  the  piano  is  Miss  Warleya 
the  concierge  has  got  the  key.  i  dont  Hate  you  ani 
more,  i  think  Im  sorry  for  you.  Good  Bye. 

"EDOUARD  MANDEKS." 


THE  END 


It  may  come  as  a  pUasant  surprise  to  many  of 
our  readers  to  learn  that  the  young  American  who 
made  so  great  an  impression  as  Siegfried  at  Covent 
Garden  on  Tuesday  night  is  only  adoptively  an 
American.  Mr  Edward  Manders,  though  a  native 
of  Paris,  is  really  an  Englishman,  his  father  having 
been  a  member  of  the  well-known  Devonshire  family, 
of  which  Mr  Mark  Manders,  M.P.,  is  now  the  honoured 
and  distinguished  head.  This,  however,  is  his  first 
visit  to  England.  Young  Manders  is  said  to  have 
made  a  professional  beginning  at  the  age  of  eight 
years,  when  he  sang  as  a  principal  in  one  of  the 
juvenile  opera  companies  with  which  the  Americans 
amuse'd  themselves  for  several  seasons  eighteen  or 
twenty  years  ago.  After  that  experience,  he  suffered 
the  vicissitudes  that  unprotected  youth  must  under- 
go in  the  battle  for  existence,  but  he  may  feel  an 
excusable  pride  in  the  fact  that  he  made  his  own 
way  to  success,  though  he  was  not  without  friends 
who  were  willing  to  aid  him.  We  believe  Lady 
Kentmoor  was  one  of  these  early  friends  whose 
gracious  offers  were  declined  in  a  perhaps  laudable 
spirit  of  independence.  Last  evening  Mr  Manders, 
who  will  be  heard  for  the  second  time  as  Siegfried 
to-morrow  night,  occupied  a  seat  in  the  box  with 
Lord  and  Lady  Kentmoor  and  their  lovely  daughter 
the  Lady  Florence.— Extract  from  the  ST  JAMES'S 
GAZETTE. 


SELECTIONS  FROM 

L.    C.   PAGE  AND   COMPANY'S 

LIST  OF  FICTION 


Selections  from 
L*  C*  page  and  Company's 
List  of  fiction 


An  Enemy  to  the  King.     (Twentieth  Thousand.) 

From   the   Recently   Discovered   Memoirs   of   the 
Sieur  de  la  Tournoire.     By  ROBERT   NEILSON    STE- 
PHENS.    Illustrated  by  H.  De  M.  Young. 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth          .         .         .  $1.25 

"  Brilliant  as  a  play  ;  it  is  equally  brilliant  as  a  romantic  novel."  —  Philadelphia 
Press. 

"  Those  who  love  chivalry,  fighting,  and  intrigue  will  find  it,  and  of  good  quality,  in 
this  book."  —  New  York  Critic. 

The  Continental   Dragoon.     (Eighteenth  Thousand.) 

A  Romance  of  Philipse  Manor  House,  in  1778. 
By  ROBERT  NEILSON  STEPHENS,  author  of  "An  En- 
emy to  the  King."  Illustrated  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 
I  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth  .  .  .  .  $1.50 

"  It  has  the  sterling  qualities  of  strong  dramatic  writing,  and  ranks  among  the 
most  spirited  and  ably  written  historical  romances  of  the  season.  An  impulsive  appre- 
ciation of  a  soldier  who  is  a  soldier,  a  man  who  is  a  man,  a  hero  who  is  a  hero,  is 
one  of  the  most  captivating  of  Mr.  Stephens's  charms  of  manner  and  style."  —  Boston 
Herald. 


The    Road     tO     PariS.         (Sixteenth  Thousand.) 

By  ROBERT    NEILSON    STEPHENS,    author   of  "An 
Enemy  to  the  King,"  "The  Continental  Dragoon," 
etc.     Illustrated  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth  $1.50 

"  Vivid  and  picturesque  in  style,  well  conceived  and  full  of  action,  the  novel  is 
absorbing  from  cover  to  cover."  —  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

"  In  the  line  of  historical  romance,  few  books  of  the  season  will  equal  Robert 
Neilson  Stephens's  'The  Road  to  Paris.'"—  Cincinnati  Times-Star, 


LIST   OF   FICTION. 


A  Gentleman  Player. 

His  Adventures  on  a  Secret  Mission  for  Queen 
Elizabeth.  By  ROBERT  NEILSON  STEPHENS,  author 
of  "An  Enemy  to  the  King,"  "The  Continental 
Dragoon,"  "The  Road  to  Paris/'  etc.  Illustrated  by 
Frank  T.  Merrill, 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth,  450  pages  $1.50 

"  A  Gentleman  Player "  is  a  romance  of  the  Elizabethan  period. 
It  relates  the  story  of  a  young  gentleman  who,  in  the  reign  of  Eliza- 
beth, falls  so  low  in  his  fortune  that  he  joins  Shakespeare's  company 
of  players,  and  becomes  a  friend  and  protege"  of  the  great  poet. 
Throughout  the  course  of  his  adventures  the  hero  makes  use  of  his 
art  as  an  actor  aad  his  skill  as  a  swordsman,  and  the  denouement  of 
the  plot  is  brought  about  by  means  of  a  performance  by  Shakespeare's 
company  of  a  play  in  an  inn  yard. 


Rose  a  Charlitte.     (Eighth  Thousand.) 

An  Acadien  Romance.     By  MARSHALL  SAUNDERS, 
author  of  "Beautiful  Joe,"  etc.     Illustrated  by  H.  De 
M.  Young. 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth  $1.50 

"  A  very  fine  novel  we  unhesitatingly  pronounce  it  ...  one  of  th«  book*  that 
stamp  themselves  at  once  upon  the  imagination  and  remain  imbedded  in  the  memory 
long  after  the  covers  are  closed."  —  Littrary  World,  Button. 


Deficient  Saints. 

A  Tale  of  Maine.    By  MARSHALL  SAUNDERS,  author 
of  "Rose  a  Charlitte,"  "Beautiful  Joe,"  etc.     Illus- 
trated by  Frank  T.  Merrill, 
i   vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth,  400  pages  $1.50 

In  this  story  Marshall  Saunders  follows  closely  the  fortunes  of  a 
French  family  whose  history  is  bound  up  with  that  of  the  old  Pine- 
tree  State.  These  French  people  become  less  and  less  French  until, 
at  last,  they  are  Americans,  intensely  loyal  to  their  State  and  their 
country.  Although  "  Deficient  Saints "  is  by  no  means  a  historical 
novel,  frequent  references  are  made  to  th«  aarhr  romantic  history  of 
Maine. 


L.   C.    PAGE   AND    COMPANY  S 


Her  Sailor. 

A  Novel.  By  MARSHALL  SAUNDERS,  author  of 
"  Rose  a  Charlitte,"  "  Beautiful  Joe,"  etc.  Illustrated. 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth,  250  pages  $1.25 

A  story  of  modern  life  of  great  charm  and  pathos,  dealing  with 
the  love  affairs  of  an  American  girl  and  a  naval  officer. 

Midst  the  Wild   Carpathians. 

By  MAURUS  JOKAI,  author  of  "  Black  Diamonds," 
"The  Lion  of  Janina,"  etc.     Authorized  translation 
by  R.  Nisbet  Bain.     Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy, 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth  $1.25 

"The  story  is  absorbingly  interesting  and  displays  all  the  virility  of  Jokai's 
powers,  his  genius  of  description,  his  keenness  of  characterization,  his  subtlety  of 
humor  and  his  consummate  art  in  the  progression  of  the  novel  from  one  apparent 
climax  to  another."  —  Chicago  Evening  Post. 

Pretty  Michal. 

A  Romance  of  Hungary.  By  MAURUS  JOKAI,  author 
of  "Black  Diamonds,"  "The  Green  Book,"  "Midst 
the  Wild  Carpathians,"  etc.  Authorized  translation 
by  R.  Nisbet  Bain.  Illustrated  with  a  photogravure 
frontispiece  of  the  great  Magyar  writer. 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth  decorative,  325  pages  $1.50 

"  It  is  at  once  a  spirited  tale  of  '  border  chivalry,'  a  charming  love  story  full  of 
genuine  poetry,  and  a  graphic  picture  of  life  in  a  country  and  at  a  period  both  equally 
new  to  English  readers."  —  Literary  World,  London. 

In  Kings'  Houses. 

A  Romance  of  the   Reign  of   Queen  Anne.     By 
JULIA  C.  R.  DORR,  author  of  "A  Cathedral  Pilgrim- 
age," etc.     Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 
I  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth          ....         $1.50 

"  We  close  the  book  with  a  wish  that  the  author  may  write  more  romance  of  the 
history  of  England  which  she  knows  so  well."  —  Bookman,  New  York. 

"A  fine  strong  story  which  is  a  relief  to  come  upon.  Related  with  charming 
simple  art."  —  Philadelphia  Public  Ltdztr. 


LIST   OF   FICTION. 


Manders. 

A  Tale  of  Paris.  By  ELWYN  BARRON.  Illustrated. 
I  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth,  350  pages  .  .  $1.50 

"  Bright  descriptions  of  student  life  in  Paris,  sympathetic  views  of  human  frailty, 
and  a  dash  of  dramatic  force,  combine  to  form  an  attractive  story.  The  book  contains 
some  very  strong  scenes,  plenty  of  life  and  color,  and  a  pleasant  tinge  of  humor. 
...  It  has  grip,  picturesqueness,  and  vivacity." —  The  Speaker  (London). 

"  A  study  of  deep  human  interest,  in  which  pathos  and  humor  both  play  their  parti. 
The  descriptions  of  life  in  the  Quartier  Latin  are  distinguished  for  their  freshness  and 
liveliness.  — St.  James  Gazette  {London). 

"  A  romance  sweet  as  violets."  —  Town  Topict  (New  York). 

In  Old  New  York. 

A   Romance.  By  WILSON  BARRETT,  author  of  "  The 
Sign  of  the  Cross,"  etc.,  and  ELWYN  BARRON,  author 
of  "  Manders."     Illustrated. 
i  vol.,  lib.   i2mo,  cloth,  350  pages      .         .         $1.50 

A  historical  romance  of  great  vigor  and  interest.  The  collabora- 
tion of  Mr.  Barrett  with  Mr.  Barren,  the  successful  author  of  "  Man- 
ders," is  a  sufficient  guarantee  of  the  production  of  a  volume  of 
fiction  which  will  take  very  high  rank. 

Omar  the  Tentmaker. 

A  Romance  of  Old  Persia.     By  NATHAN  HASKELL 
DOLE.     Illustrated  by  F.  T.  Merrill. 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth          .         .         .         .         $1.50 

"  The  story  itself  is  beautiful  and  it  is  beautifully  written.  It  possesses  the  true 
spirit  of  romance,  and  is  almost  poetical  in  form.  The  author  has  undoubtedly  been 
inspired  by  his  admiration  for  the  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam  to  write  this  story  of 


)mar  is  the  hero."  —  Troy  Times. 
"  Mr.  Dole  has  built  a  delightful  romance." —  Chicago  Chronicle. 
*  It  is  a  strong  and  vividly  written  story,  full  of  the  life  and  spirit  of  roraaaet."  — 
New  Orleans  Picayune. 

The  Golden  Dog. 

A  Romance  of  Quebec.    By  WILLIAM  KIRBY.   New 
authorized  edition.     Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy, 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth          .         .         .  $i.»5 

"  A  powerful  romance  of  love,  intrigue,  and  adventure  in  the  time  of  L*uis  XV.  and 
Mme.  de  Pompadour,  when  the  French  colonies  wer«  making  their  gr»«t  struggle  to 
retain  for  an  ungrateful  court  the  fair«»t  jewels  in  the  colonial  diadem  of  Frmaet."  — 
New  York  Herald.  — 


L.   C.    PAGE    AND    COMPANY'S 


The  Making  of  a  Saint. 

By  W.  SOMERSET  MAUGHAM.      Illustrated  by  Gil- 
bert James. 
I  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth          .         .         .        •.         $1.50 

"  An  exceedingly  strong  story  of  original  motive  and  design.  .  .  .  The  scenes  are 
imbued  with  a  spirit  of  frankness  .  .  .  and  in  addition  there  is  a  strong  dramatic 
flavor."  —  Philadelphia  Press. 

"  A  sprightly  tale  abounding  in  adventures,  and  redolent  of  the  spirit  of  mediaeval 
Italy."  —  Brooklyn  Times. 

Friendship  and  Folly. 

A   novel.      By   MARIA    LOUISE    POOL,    author     >f 
"  Dally,"  "  A  Redbridge  Neighborhood,"  "  In  a  Dike 
Shanty,"  etc.     Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy. 
I  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth         .         .         .  $1.25 

"  The  author  handles  her  elements  with  skilful  fingers  —  fingers  that  feel  their  way 
most  truthfully  among  the  actual  emotions  and  occurrences  of  nineteenth  century 
romance.  Hers  is  a  frank,  sensitive  touch,  and  the  result  is  both  complete  and  full  of 
interest."  —  Boston  Ideas. 

"The  story  will  rank  with  the  best  previous  work  of  this  author."  —  Indianapolis 
News. 

The  Knight  of  King's  Guard. 

A  Romance  of  the  Days  of  the  Black  Prince.    By 
EWAN  MARTIN.    Illustrated  by  Gilbert  James. 
i  vol.,  lib.   I2mo,  cloth,   300  pages      .         .         $1.50 

An  exceedingly  well  written  romance,  dealing  with  the  romantic 
period  chronicled  so  admirably  by  Froissart.  The  scene  is  laid  at  a 
border  castle  between  England  and  Scotland,  the  city  of  London,  and 
on  the  French  battle-fields  of  Cressy  and  Poitiers.  Edward  the  Third, 
Queen  Philippa,  the  Black  Prince,  Bertrand  du  Guesclin,  are  all  his- 
torical characters,  accurate  reproductions  of  which  give  life  and  vitality 
to  the  romance.  The  character  of  the  hero  is  especially  well  drawn. 

The  Rejuvenation  of  fliss  Semaphore. 

A  farcical  novel.     By  HAL  GODFREY.     Illustrated 
by  Etheldred  B.  Barry. 
I  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth          ....         $1.25 

"  A  fanciful,  laughable  tale  of  two  maiden  sisters  of  uncertain  age  who  are  induced, 
by  their  natural  longing  for  a  return  to  youth  and  its  blessings,  to  pay  a  large  sum  for 
a  mystical  water  which  possesses  the  yalue  of  setting  backwards  the  hands  of  time. 
No  more  delightfully  fresh  and  original  book  has  appeared  since  '  Vice  Versa ' 
charmed  an  amused  world.  It  is  well  written,  drawn  to  the  life,  and  full  of  the  most 
enjoyable  humor."  —  Boston  Beacon. 


Cross  Trails. 

By  VICTOR  WAITE.  Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy. 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth  '  4  .  .  .  $I>50 

"  A  Spanish-American  novel  of  unusual  interest,  a  brilliant,  dashing  and  stirrine 
story,  teeming  with  humanity  and  life.  Mr.  Waite  is  to  be  congratulated  upon  the 
strength  with  which  he  has  drawn  his  characters."  —  San  Francisco  ChronicUT 

"  Every  page  is  enthralling."  —  A  cademy. 

"  Full  of  strength  and  reality."  —  A  ihentfitm. 

"  The  book  is  exceedingly  powerful."  —  Glasgow  Herald. 

The  Paths  of  the  Prudent. 

By  J.  S.  FLETCHER,  author  of  "When  Charles  I. 
was  King,"  "Mistress  Spitfire,"  etc.     Illustrated  by 
J.  W.  Kennedy, 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth,  300  pages         .         .         $1.50 

"  The  story  has  a  curious  fascination  for  the  reader,  and  the  theme  and  characters 
are  handled  with  rare  ability."  —  Scotsman. 

"Dorinthia  is  charming.     The  story  is    told  with  great  humor."  —  Pall  Matt 

Gazette. 

"  An  excellently  well  told  story,  and  the  reader's  interest  is  perfectly  sustained  to 
the  very  end."  —  Punch. 

Bijli  the  Dancer. 

By  JAMES  BLYTHE  PATTON.    Illustrated  by  Horace 
Van  Rinth. 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth          ....         $1.50 

"  A  novel  of  Modern  India.  .  .  .  The  fortunes  of  the  heroine,  an  Indian  Nautch 
girl,  are  told  with  a  vigor,  pathos,  and  a  wealth  of  poetic  sympathy  that  make*  the  book 
admirable  from  first  to  last."  —  Detroit  Free  Press. 

"  A  remarkable  book."  —  Bookman. 

"  Powerful  and  fascinating."  —  Patt  Mall  Gazette. 

"A  vivid  picture  of  Indian  life."  —  Academy  (London). 

Drives  and  Puts. 

A  Book  of  Golf   Stories.     By  WALTER  CAMP  and 
LILIAN  BROOKS.     Illustrated. 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth  decorative          .         .         $1.25 

Considering  the  great  and  growing  interest  in  golf,  —  perhaps  the 
king  of  sports, —  this  volume,  written  by  Walter  Camp,  the  eminent 
authority  on  sports,  in  collaboration  with  Lilian  Brooks,  the  well- 
known  writer  of  short  stories,  is  sure  to  be  a  success. 


8  L.    C.    PAGE    AND    COMPANY'S 

"  To  Arms ! " 

Being  Some  Passages  from  the  Early  Life  of  Allan 
Oliphant,  Chirurgeon,  Written  by  Himself,  and  now 
Set  Forth  for  the  First  Time.  By  ANDREW  BALFOUR. 
Illustrated  by  F.  W.  Glover, 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth          ....         $1.50 

"  A  tale  of '  Bonnie  Tweedside,'  and  St.  Dynans  and  Auld  Reekie,  —  a  fair  picture 
of  the  country  under  misrule  and  usurpation  and  all  kinds  of  vicissitudes.  Allan  Oli- 
phant is  a  great  hero."  —  Chicago  Times-Herald. 

"  A  recital  of  thrilling  interest,  told  with  unflagging  vigor."  —  Globe. 

"  An  unusually  excellent  example  of  a  semi-historic  romance."  —  World. 


The  River  of  Pearls;  OR,  THE  RED  SPIDER. 

A  Chinese    Romance.      By  RENE    DE    PONT-JEST, 
with    sixty    illustrations    from   original    drawings    by 
Felix  R^gamey. 
i   vol.,  lib.    I2mo,  cloth,   300  pages    .         .         $1.50 

Close  acquaintance  with  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  Chinese 
has  enabled  the  author  to  write  a  story  which  is  instructive  as  well  as 
interesting.  The  book,  as  a  whole,  shows  the  writer  to  be  possessed 
of  a  strong  descriptive  faculty,  as  well  as  keen  insight  into  the  charac- 
ters of  the  people  of  whom  he  is  writing.  The  plot  is  cleverly  con- 
ceived and  well  worked  out,  and  the  story  abounds  with  incidents  of 
the  most  exciting  and  sensational  character.  Enjoyment  of  its  perusal 
is  increased  by  the  powerful  illustrations  of  Felix  Regamey. 

The  book  may  be  read  with  profit  by  any  one  who  wishes  to  real- 
ize the  actual  condition  of  native  life  in  China. 


Frivolities. 

Especially  Addressed  to  Those  who  are  Tired  of 
being  Serious.     By  RICHARD  MARSH,  author  of  "  Tom 
Ossington's  Ghost,"  etc. 
I  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth,  340  pages         .         .         $1.50 

A  dozen  stories  in  an  entirely  new  vein  for  Mr.  Marsh.  The  humor 
is  irresistible,  and  carries  the  reader  on  breathlessly  from  one  laugh  to 
another.  The  style,  though  appealing  to  a  totally  different  side  of 
complex  human  nature,  is  as  strong  and  effective  as  the  author's 
intense  and  dramatic  work  in  "  Tom  Ossington's  Ghost." 


LIST    OF   FICTION. 


Via  Lucis. 

By  KASSANDRA   VIVARIA.     With   portrait    of    the 
author. 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth          ....         $1.50 

"  '  Via  Lucis  'is  —  we  say  it  unhesitatingly  —  a  striking  and  interesting  production." 
—  London  A  tkcncrum. 

"  Without  doubt  the  most  notable  novel  of  the  summer  is  this  strong  story  of  Ital- 
ian life,  so  full  of  local  color  one  can  almost  see  the  cool,  shaded  patios  and  the  flame 
of  the  pomegranate  blossom,  and  smell  the  perfume  of  the  grapes  growing  on  the  hill- 
sides. It  is  a  story  of  deep  and  passionate  heart  interests,  of  fierce  loves  and  fiercer 
hates,  of  undisciplined  natures  that  work  out  their  own  bitter  destiny  of  woe.  There 
has  hardly  been  a  finer  piece  of  portraiture  than  that  of  the  child  Arduina,  —  the  child 
of  a  sickly  and  unloved  mother  and  a  cruel  and  vindictive  father,  —  a  morbid,  queer, 
lonely  little  creature,  who  is  left  to  grow  up  without  love  or  training  of  any  kind."  —  Ntw 
Orleans  Picayune. 


Lally  of  the  Brigade. 

A  Romance  of  the  Irish  Brigade  in  France  during 
the  Time  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth.    By  L.  McMANUS, 
author  of  « The  Silk  of  the  Kine,"  "  The  Red  Star," 
etc.     Illustrated. 
i  vol.,  lib.   I2mo,  cloth,  250  pages     .         .         $1.35 

The  scene  of  this  romance  is  partly  at  the  siege  of  Crimona  (held 
by  the  troops  of  Louis  XIV.)  by  the  Austrian  forces  under  Prince 
Eugene.  During  the  siege  the  famous  Irish  Brigade  renders  valiant 
service,  and  the  hero  —  a  dashing  young  Irishman  —  is  in  the  thick 
of  the  fighting.  He  is  also  able  to  give  efficient  service  in  unravelling 
a  political  intrigue,  in  which  the  love  affairs  of  the  hero  and  the 
heroine  are  interwoven. 


Sons  of  Adversity. 

A  Romance  of  Queen   Elizabeth's  Time.     By  L. 
COPE  CORNFORD,   author  of  "Captain  Jacobus,"  etc. 
Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy. 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth         ....         $1.25 

"  A  tale  of  adventure  on  land  and  sea  at  the  time  when  Protestant  England  and 
Catholic  Spain  were  struggling  for  naval  supremacy.  Spanish  conspiracies  against 
the  peace  of  good  Queen  Bess,  a  vivid  description  of  the  raise  of  the  Spanish  siege  of 
Leyden  by  the  combined  Dutch  and  English  forces,  sea  fighu,  the  recovery  of  sloleo 
treasure,  are  all  skilfully  woven  elements  in  a  plot  of  unusual  ttrength." — ' 
JMMfa 


L.   C.    PAGE   AND   COMPANY  S 


The  Archbishop's  Unguarded  Moment. 

By  OSCAR  FAY  ADAMS.     Illustrated. 
I  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth  decorative          .         .         $1.25 

Mr.  Adams  is  well  known  as  a  writer  of  short  stories.  As  the  title 
indicates,  these  stories  deal  with  dignitaries  of  the  Episcopal  Church. 
The  mingled  pathos  and  humor,  which  Mr.  Adams  has  handled  so 
admirably  in  describing  his  characters,  make  a  book  of  more  tha> 
average  interest  for  the  reader  of  fiction. 


Captain  Pracasse. 

Translated  from  the  French  of  Gautier.    By  ELLEN 
MURRAY  BEAM.     Illustrated  by  Victor  A.  Searles. 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth          ....         $1.25 

"  The  story  is  one  of  the  best  in  romantic  fiction,  for  upon  it  Gautitr  lavished  his 
rare  knowledge  of  the  twelfth  century."  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  One  of  those  rare  stories  in  which  vitality  is  abundant."  —  New  York  Herald. 


The  Count  of  Nideck. 

From  the  French  of  Erckmann-Chatrian,  translated 
and  adapted  by  RALPH  BROWNING  FISKE.    Illustrated 
by  Victor  A.  Searles. 
i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth          ....         $1.25 

" '  The  Count  of  Nideck,'  adapted  from  the  French  of  Erckmann  -  Chatrian  by 
Ralph  Browning;  Fiske,  is  a  most  interesting  tale,  simply  told,  and  moving  with  direct 
force  to  the  end  in  view."  —  Minneapolis  Times. 

"  Rapid  in  movement,  it  abounds  in  dramatic  incident,  furnishes  graphic  descrip- 
tions of  the  locality  and  is  enlivened  with  a  very  pretty  love  story."  —  Troy  Budget. 


Muriella;   OR,   LE  SELVE. 
T.       By  OUIDA.     Illustrated  by  M.  B.  Prendergast. 
I  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth          ....         $1.25 

"  Ouida's  literary  style  is  almost  perfect  in  '  Muriella.' "  —  Chicago  Times-Herald. 

" '  Muriella '  is  an  admirable  example  of  the  author's  best  work."  —  Brooklyn 
Times. 

"  It  dwells  in  the  memory,  and  bears  the  dramatic  force,  tragic  interest,  and  skilful- 
ness  of  treatment  that  mark  the  work  of  Ouida  when  at  her  best."  —  Pittsburg  Bulletin, 


LIST   OF    FICTION. 


Bobbie  McDuff. 

By  CLINTON  Ross,  author  of  "The  Scarlet  Coat," 
"  Zuleika,"  etc.     Illustrated  by  R  West  Clinedinst. 
I  vol.,  large  i6mo,  cloth       .         .         .         .         $1.00 

u",,'  Bo*>bie.  M.?P"?«'  bX  Clinton  Ross,  is  a  healthy  romance,  tersely  and  vigorously 
told." — Louisville  Courier-Journal. 

"  It  is  full  of  mystery  and  as  fascinating  as  a  fairy  tale."  —  San  Francitto  CkrtnieU. 

"  It  is  a  well-written  story,  full  of  surprises  and  abounding  in  vivid  interest  " Tht 

Congregationalat,  Boston, 

The  Shadow  of  a  Crime. 

A  Cumbrian  Romance.    By  HALL  CAINE,  author  of 
"The  Manxman,"  "The  Deemster,"  etc.,  with  twelve 
full-page  illustrations  in  half-tone,  from  drawings  by 
M.  B.  Prendergast. 
i  vol.,  cloth,  illustrated,  gilt  top   .         .         .         $1.35 


The  Works  of  Gabriel  d'Annunzio. 

The  Triumph  of  Death. 
The  Intruder; 

The  flaidens  of  the  Rocks. 
The  Child  of  Pleasure. 

Each,  i  vol.,  lib.  I2mo,  cloth        .         .         .         $1.50 

"The  writer  of  the  greatest  promise  to-day  in  Italy,  and  perhaps  one  of  the  most 
unique  figures  in  contemporary  literature,  is  Gabriel  d'Annuniio,  the  poet-novelist.''  — 
The  Bookman. 

" This  book  is  realistic.  Some  say  that  it  is  brutally  so.  But  the  realism  is  that  of 
Flaubert  and  not  of  Zola.  There  is  no  plain  speaking  for  the  sake  of  plain  speaking. 
Every  detail  is  justified  in  the  fact  that  it  illuminates  either  the  motives  or  the  actions 
of  the  man  and  woman  who  here  strjid  revealed.  It  is  deadly  true.  The  author  holds 
the  mirror  up  to  nature,  and  the  reader,  as  he  sees  his  own  experiences  duplicated  hi 
passage  after  passage,  has  something  of  the  same  sensation  as  all  of  us  know  on  the 
first  reading  of  George  Meredith's  '  Egoist.'  Reading  these  page*  is  like  being  oat  in 
the  country  on  a  dark  night  in  a  storm.  Suddenly  a  flash  of  lightning  com**  amd  every 
detail  of  your  surroundings  U  revealed."  —  Rnirni  of  tkt  Trtumfk  of  Dtatk,  in  Mr 
tfew  York  Evening  Sun. 


12  L.    C.    PAGE   AND    COMPANY  S 

Mademoiselle  de  Berny. 

A  Story  of  Valley  Forge.  By  PAULINE  BRADFORD 
MACKIE.  With  five  full-page  photogravures  from 
drawings  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

Printed    on    deckle-edged    paper,   with    gilt    top,   and 
bound  in  cloth.      272  pages          .         .         .          $1.50 

"  The  charm  of  '  Mademoiselle  de  Berny '  lies  in  its  singular  sweetness."  — 
Boston  Herald. 

"  One  of  the  very  few  choice  American  historical  stories." —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  Real  romance  .  .  .  admirably  written."  —  Washington  Post. 

"  A  stirring  romance,  full  of  life  and  action  from  start  to  finish."  —  Toledo  Daily 
Blade. 

"  Of  the  many  romances  in  which  Washington  is  made  to  figure,  this  is  one  of  the 
most  fascinating,  one  of  the  best."  —  Boston  Courier, 

Ye  Lyttle  Salem  Maide. 

A  Story  of  Witchcraft.  By  PAULINE  BRADFORD 
MACKIE,  with  four  full-page  photogravures  from  draw- 
ings by  E.  W.  D.  Hamilton. 

Printed   on    deckle-edged   paper,   with   gilt   top,   and 
bound  in  cloth.      321  pages          .         .         .          $1.50 

A  tale  of  the  days  of  the  reign  of  superstition  in  New  England, 
and  of  a  brave  "  lyttle  maide,"  of  Salem  Town,  whose  faith  and  hope 
and  unyielding  adherence  to  her  word  of  honor  form  the  basis  of  a 
most  attractive  story.  Several  historical  characters  are  introduced, 
including  the  Rev.  Cotton  Mather  and  Governor  and  Lady  Phipps, 
and  a  very  convincing  picture  is  drawn  of  Puritan  life  during  the  latter 
part  of  the  seventeenth  century.  An  especial  interest  is  added  to  the 
book  by  the  illustrations,  reproduced  by  the  photogravure  process 
from  originals  by  E.  W.  D.  Hamilton. 

In  Guiana  Wilds. 

A  Study  of  Two  Women.  By  JAMES  RODWAY, 
author  of  "  In  the  Guiana  Forest,"  etc.  Illustrated. 
i  vol.,  library  I2mo,  cloth,  decorative  cover,  250 
pages  ........  $1.25 

"  In  Guiana  Wilds  "  may  be  described  as  an  ethnological  romance. 
A  typical  young  Scotchman  becomes,  by  the  force  of  circumstances, 
decivilized,  and  mates  with  a  native  woman. 

It  is  a  psychological  study  of  great  power  and  ability.  ,    .  _ 


LIST   OF   FICTION.  13 


Vivian  of  Virginia. 

Being  the  Memoirs  of  Our  First  Rebellion,  by  John 
Vivian,  Esq.,  of  Middle  Plantation,  Virginia.  By  HUL- 
BERT  FULLER.  With  ten  full-page  illustrations  by 
Frank  T.  Merrill. 

i    vol.,    library    I2mo,    cloth,    gilt    top,   deckle-edge 
paper  .......         $1.50 

"  A  stirring  and  accurate  account  of  the  famous  Bacon  rebellion."  —  Lot  A  ngtlt* 
Sunday  Times. 

"  We  shall  have  to  search  far  to  find  a  better  colonial  story  than  this."  —  Denver- 
Republican.  , 

"  A  well-conceived,  well-plotted  romance,  full  of  life  and  adventure."  —  Chicago 
Inter-Ocean. 

"  A  story  abounding  in  exciting  incidents  and  well-told  conversations."  —  Boston 
Journal. 

"  Mr.  Fuller  will  find  a  large  circle  of  readers  for  his  romance  who  will  not  be  dis- 
appointed in  their  pleasant  expectations."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  Instead  of  using  history  as  a  background  for  the  exploits  of  the  hero,  the  author 
used  the  hero  to  bring  out  history  and  the  interesting  events  of  those  early  days  in 
Virginia.  The  author  has  preserved  the  language  and  customs  of  the  tiroes  admir- 
ably." —  Philadelphia  Telegram. 


The  Gray  House  of  the  Quarries. 

By  MARY  HARRIOTT  NORRIS.     With  a  frontispiece 
etching  by  Edmund  H.  Garrett. 
i  vol.,  8vo,  cloth,  500  pages          .         .        .         $1.50 

"  The  peculiar  genre,  for  which,  in  a  literary  sense,  all  must  acknowledge  obliga- 
tion to  the  author  of  a  new  type,  is  the  Dutch  -  American  species.  The  church-goings, 
the  courtings,  the  pleasures  and  sorrows  of  a  primitive  people,  their  lives  and  <«•»««• 
weddings,  suicides,  births  and  burials,  are  Rembrandt  and  Rubens  pictures  on  a  fresh 
canvas.  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  The  fine  ideal  of  womanhood  in  a  person  never  once  physically  described  will 
gratify  the  highest  tone  of  the  period,  and  is  an  ennobling  conception."  —  Ttmt  mmd 
The  fffur,  Boston, 

A  Hypocritical  Romance  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

By  CAROLINE  TICKNOR.     Illustrated  by  J.  W.  Ken- 
nedy, 
i  vol.,  large  i6mo,  cloth  $1.00 

Miss  Ticknor,  well  known  as  one  of  the  most  promising  of  the 
younger  school  of  American  \v .  iters,  has  never  done  better  work  than 
in  the  majority  of  these  clever  stories,  written  in  a  delightful  comedy 
vein. 


14  L.    C.    PAGE    AND    COMPANY  S 

A  Man=at=Arms. 

A  Romance  of  the  days  of  Gian  Galeazzo  Visconti, 
the  Great  Viper.  By  CLINTON  SCOLLARD,  author  of 
"  Skenandoa,"  etc.  With  six  full-page  illustrations 
and  title-page  by  E.  W.  D.  Hamilton. 
i  vol.,  library  I2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  deckle-edge 
paper  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  $1.50 

The  scene  of  the  story  is  laid  in  Italy,  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
fourteenth  century.  The  hero,  Luigi  della  Verria,  unable  to  bear 
the  restrictions  of  home  or  to  reconcile  himself  to  the  profession  of 
law,  as  desired  by  his  father,  leaves  his  family  and,  as  the  result  of 
,  chance,  becomes  a  man-at-arms  in  the  service  of  Gian  Galeazzo  Vis- 
conti, the  cunning  and  unscrupulous  Lord  of  Pavia,  known  as  the 
Great  Viper.  Thenceforward  the  vicissitudes  and  adventures,  both 
in  love  and  war,  of  Delia  Verria,  are  told  in  a  way  to  incite  the  in- 
terest to  the  highest  point ;  and  a  strong  picture  is  drawn  of  Italian 
life  at  this  period,  with  its  petty  vendettas,  family  broils,  and  the  un- 
principled methods  employed  by  the  heads  of  noble  families  to  gain 
their  personal  ends. 

An  individual  value  is  added  to  the  book  by  the  illustrations  and 
title-page,  drawn  by  Mr.  E.  W.  D.  Hamilton. 

"  The  style  is  admirable,  simple,  direct,  fluent,  and  sometimes  eloquent ;  and  the 
Story  moves  with  rapidity  from  start  to  finish."  —  The  Bookman. 
u  A  good  story."  —  N.  Y.  Commercial  A  dvertiser, 
It  is  a  triumph  in  style." —  Utica  Herald. 


Cyrano  de  Bergerac. 

A  Heroic  Comedy  from  the  French  of  Edward  Ros- 
stand,  as  accepted  and  played  by  Richard  Mansfield. 
Translated  by  HOWARD  THAYER  KINGSBURY. 
i  vol.,  cloth  decorative,  with  a  photogravure  frontis- 
piece   $1.00 

I  vol.,  paper  boards -5<> 

The  immediate  and  prolonged  success  of  "Cyrano  de  Bergerac," in 
Paris,  has  been  paralleled  by  Mr.  Mansfield's  success  with  an  English 
version,  dating  from  its  first  night  at  the  Garden  Theatre,  New  York, 
October  3,  1898. 

As  a  literary  work,  the  original  form  of  Rostand  took  high  rank  ; 
and  the  preference  of  Mr.  Mansfield  for  Mr.  Kingsbury's  new  trans- 
lation implies  its  superior  merit. 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGOtAl.  U8R*m  FAOUTY 


A     000  036  391     1 


